Mein Schutzengel  Il Mio Protettore
by woodbyne
Summary: Ludwig is a bodyguard. When his brother lands him a cushy job in the mafia, he's appalled. Looking after some playboy mafioso heir is not his idea of fun. He wants out. But the longer he's in The Family, the less he wants to want out. Full summary inside.
1. Vienna to Venice

**Warnings: **Bad language, AU, OOC, Dark!Germany, Mafia!Italy, Genderbending, infrequent updates, possibly yaoi later on.

**Pairings: **Gerita (main) Spamano, Franada, PrusHung, USUK (will be mentioned in passing/ are minor pairings when compared to the GERITA that will melt your brain.)

**Summary: **Ludwig Beilschmidt is an ex-military, freelance bodyguard. His psychotic elder brother gets him a cushy, well paid job that lines up nicely with his own. Ludwig is appalled. Looking after the playboy grandson of some crazy Italian mafia boss is the last thing he wants to do. But once you're in The Family, you can't get out, and ol' Lutz is finding it harder and harder to _want_ out

**You may or may not know all the German and or Italian in this, so have your favourite translator open in another tab, I'm not going to translate the little things in text. Also the translations may suck. My translator of choice is Google. **

**I apologise if you feel it's bad of me not to include all of the translations. **

**~RutheLa**

**Ps. Sorry about **_The Thief_**, I'll get on that . . . **

Mein Schutzengel - Il Mio Protettore

"_Verdammt_, Gil! I don't need you to look after me, _Bruder_! I can take care of myself!" the tall man growled into his mobile phone. The technological marvel of the 21st century looked ridiculous, dwarfed as it was by the large German hand in which it was perched. Perched, much like a very small finch is perched in the claws of an enormous cat; perched on the precipice of its own imminent demise.

"_Ja, richtig_, Lutz. Just like last time, right?" the elder said softly, a little sadness seeping through his usual, brain-melting ego.

"Gilbert," Ludwig's voice was very quiet. The sort of quiet that crickets make when there is something oh, so very much larger and scarier than they are in the grass, and whatever the beastie may be is headed straight for your throat, "You are my brother. You are older and wiser than I am. But I will not listen to you if you talk like that. I don't want to talk, and I really don't need that from you."

"_Was auch immer_, Lutz," _Whatever_, the crackly and irritated voice on the other end of the line snapped, sounding much more like the Gilbert Ludwig was used to, "Straighten that stick you keep up your butt and get your giant _Deutsch arsch_ on a plane to Venice this fucking instant, _hörst du mich_?" _D'you hear me?_

"_Jawohl, Abschied_." _Yes, Goodbye_. The younger brother responded curtly, stabbing at his tiny miracle of cellular technology with his finger hard enough to make it spark in protest and die there in his palm.

"_Verdammt ficken Handy_," he hissed, _damn fucking phone_, tossing the useless rectangle of circuitry into the nearest trash can. He sighed and looked up at the beautiful Berlin cityscape that surrounded him. At least a better job would help him pay for all these damn phones.

He turned to the middle aged man who had been standing behind him. He was slim and austere, windblown brunette hair that was just turning grey at the temples made him look refined rather than old. Though he was at least a foot shorter than the German, the composer still managed to look condescendingly at the taller man,

"I hope that wasn't a personal phone call on my time, Herr Beilschmidt," the Austrian tapped his foot, slender arms crossed tightly over his chest. Somehow, Ludwig resisted the urge to hang his head like a little boy and say, 'sorry, sir.'

"Yes, Herr Edelstein, it was my brother."

"Well, I hope you realise how serious this is? What if I were to be kidnapped or worse _während Sie waren mit Ihrem Bruder plaudern_?" _While you were chatting with your brother_.

"I realise exactly how serious it is, Her Edelstein," one more word. If that pompous, piano-playing goat said one more patronising word, Ludwig was going to shoot him. Here, now, in this park and between the eyes.

"I'm afraid I shall have to withhold a portion of your pay check this month," Roderich Edelstein shook his head as though the thought saddened him deeply. What bullshit. Ludwig knew the man was as rich as Croesus, and as miserly as Scrooge.

"No, you won't, Herr Edelstein," the German said calmly, his expression hadn't changed from the beginning of his conversation with Gilbert, and it was starting to concern his employer, "I am terminating out contract; effective immediately."

"You can't do that!" Roderich shrieked. Ludwig looked at him. It was the look of someone who had seen great pain and great suffering, and was currently staring at someone who thought he had it worse; someone who was so spectacularly wrong that there should be an award in their name.

There was a soft _shwif_ of fabric and a finite metal click, and before the irate Austrian could blink, there was a HK USP .45 Tactical handgun aimed right between his eyes, the silencer pressing a cold, hard ring into his forehead.

"Yes, Herr Edelstein, actually I can." The smaller man gulped and nodded, looking paler than death and shaking as though he was facing down the Grim Reaper himself rather than a six-foot-six, muscle-bound, ice-eyed, ex-military German bodyguard with a semi-automatic firearm.

Strike that. Ludwig Beilschmidt would make the Grim Reaper piss himself on sight.

"_Abschied, Herr_." He said, and strode off to flag down a taxi and book himself a ticket to Venice, leaving Roderich Edelstein trembling in the middle of a Berlin green zone.

~=======oOo =======~

Slim bronze fingers, perfectly manicured, fastened gold cufflinks into the cool sleeves of a white silk shirt. With a skill born of long practise, those same fingers carelessly flicked mother of pearl buttons into place; leaving the three open to expose a sliver of chest as flat and smooth as a sheet of beaten metal.

With utmost reverence, those delicate hands lifted a small gold cross from a hook on the wall besides the bed and used a neatly trimmed thumb nail to open the clasp. The thin chain trickled coldly around the sculpted column of neck, encircling it.

The hands shook as they tapped each shoulder, forehead and chest. The tiny crucifix was lifted with care to full, smooth lips, and as the metal was pressed against the skin, the lower lip was pulled down, revealing a flash of moist skin as pink and desirable as the inner flesh of a halved strawberry. A muted and humble tenor whispered a quiet prayer, offering up his deeds to Heaven.

With as much reverence as was given to the cross, a Beretta 8000 Cougar was picked up off the polished cherry end table. Long, thin fingers trailed over the barrel of the gun, and a fond smirk touched the corners of those sweet lips. In a careless motion, the Beretta was tucked into the back of the tight, black Diesel jeans that fit almost like a second skin.

Carelessly throwing on an Emporio Armani waistcoat, the hands brushed a few strands of copper coloured hair from honey-toned eyes. The fingers frittered uselessly for a few minutes trying to make a particularly rambunctious lock of hair lie flat, but only succeeded in making it curl into a spiral as well as encouraging it to defy gravity further.

A heavy gold watch weighed down the slim wrist that hovered over several sets of keys. The hand flinched as a razor thin mobile phone began to buzz the Tarantella Napoletana across the tabletop. Barely pausing to check the caller ID, the pad of a thumb flicked the device open and held it up the broadly smiling mouth,

"Ve~ _Fratellone, come stai_?"

A burst of rapid-fire Italian on the other end made the expensively dressed individual sigh through a delicately curved nose, the high cheekbones dusted with a glow of anger, and the Italian was returned with equal vigour, the delicate hands becoming a means of communication. The elaborate hand gestures became more and more grandiose until the right hand held the phone while the left clenched and unclenched, almost perpendicular to the floor.

"_Stai zitto_, Lovino! _Shut up_! I don't need another babysitter!" he snapped, his arm descending and snatching up a set of keys; the one with the three-pronged crown.

"Chigi! You've had Nonno retire three this month alone! You need someone to protect you!" the furious voice on the other end buzzed, "Look, this guy is my guy's brother, and the dumb shit as already called him down."

"Then I'll pay for his plane ticket and send him back to whichever Berlin bar he was in before your guy called him." The younger brother said, exasperated.

"Look, fratellino," the other speaker seemed to be forcibly pushing his anger back down his own throat, "I've seen this guy's resume; it's longer than he is tall. If you believe his brother, that's pretty fucking long. And it's good to. He had a bit of a hitch on his last assignment. But look, he's ex-military and he can assemble any gun you care to throw at him in under thirty seconds and then shoot you with it."

"Antonia is rubbing your back isn't she?"

"Vaffanculo! So what if she is? It's none of your business!"

"Ve~ Easy there, Lovi, or she'll stop. _Ciao_, Antonia!" he called the last bit out loud enough for his brother's Spanish girlfriend to hear. A faint "_Hola, cariño_!" could be heard over the airwaves

"She says hi," Was the curt and long-suffering Lovino's only comment on the third party conversation that was now going on between his brother and his girlfriend.

_Crash. Zip. Thunk_. Various Italian curses. Gunfire.

"Chigi, Feli," Lovino sighed, "did they kill you this time?"

"No, _idiota_," the younger brother dusted glass off his waistcoat, "but that _testa di cazzo_ owes me a new window."

"See? Feli, Nonno is worried about you. You need to have some kind of protection!"

"I use a condom every time!" The silence that greeted this joke was profound in its severity.

"Bene! Send him to the _Bauer Il Palazzo. _I'll meet him there tomorrow. He's Beilschmidt, like your guy, si?"

"Si. Ciao, Feli." And the line went dead.

Feliciano Vargas prodded the corpse of his would-be assassin with the toe of his loafers and shot the man once more for good measure. Then he called his people, "Nikki, clean up in my bedroom, grazie."

And grabbing the keys to his boat, he slid down the banister and out the front door.

~=======oOo =======~

"Hey, Lutz! Feli's going to meet you tomorrow at the Bauer Hotel! Paid for! _Lieb, ja_?" _Sweet, yeah? _

"Ja, Bruder," Ludwig sighed; he was beginning to regret sending his new number to Gilbert.

"Dude, you are in the City of Love! _Zumindest__behaupte __du bist glücklich__!_"

"I see no point in pretending to be happy when I'm not, Gil. And I'm pretty sure that the city of love is actually Paris."

"Jesus, Lutz! What a ray of fucking sunshine! Look. I'm in Rome right now with Lovino. I'll be down with you in a day or so. Lovi wants to see how you and Feli are getting along."

"I always play nice." Was the inflectionless response, and though Gilbert wouldn't admit it, it scared him more than a little when Ludwig used that tone of voice.

"Seriously. Ludwig, don't fuck around here. If your guy doesn't approve of your conduct, you get fired. And by fired, I mean fired _permanently_. From _life_." He paused for a second and when the younger brother didn't say anything, he added, with some concern for Ludwig's intelligence, "And by that I mean they take you outside and shoot you in the fucking head. They kill you, Lutz."

The silence stretched out between them like a piece of bubblegum pulled slowly in opposite directions; sagging and thinning in the middle until it breaks into two pieces.

"Lutz? Speak the fuck up! Not cool, man."

"If you were so concerned with my safety, _bruder_, why did you get me an interview?" it was a quiet question. One to which there were several answers. Many of these answers were in Gilbert's diary (It's a _journal,_ damn it!), such as how much he worried about his brother, all alone in Berlin. Ludwig was a recluse, and his last romantic relationship had ended with the girl running screaming from his apartment and calling the police, who almost discovered some undesirable things in the German's apartment. The one before that had ended in Lutz marching the poor girl out of his place at gunpoint and threatening to plug her between the eyes if she ever let her thoughts stray in his direction again.

It also worried Gilbert that Ludwig had a certain fondness for execution-style shootings. The military had been good for Lutz, or at the very least it had given him an outlet for his particular brand of queer.

And that the man never seemed to loosen up. If the man was any more tightly wound, he was going to shoot a cuckoo out his ass on the hour, ever hour. There was a time for that stereotypical German efficiency, and then there was the time to rock out. Or, that's what Lutz did. Gil preferred grand opera, despite what people would think. It made him feel even more awesome.

"I don't trust you with my girlfriend. You're either going to shoot her or fuck her, and I'd rather have you here, with me, in Italy." It was the least of his worries, really; Elizaveta Héderváry was probably the most vicious person he knew, second to Lutz. She was more obvious about it and she preferred to induce blunt force trauma via cast-iron frying-pan. So it was a safe bet that if the two of them ever decided to go behind his back, he would know because Ludwig would have a permanent concussion. Not that Gilbert was sure his brother _didn't_ have a permanent concussion.

"_Du bist ein Schwanz_, Gil." Was the curt reply, but there was a hint of a smile to it, which had the elder brother laughing in relief,

"I may be a dick, but I'm alive and I have a cushy job. Yours will be less so; Feli is a real wild card. Lovino is just moody. Feli's had eighteen bodyguards this year, three this month, and he's had them all shot. The minute that little shit starts talking about '_pensionamento_,' or retirement, or whatever, get out. Shoot who you need to, and get the _fuck_ out of dodge."

"I'm in Venice."

"You, Lutz, are terminally literal minded. That is your fucking problem."

"I'm going to the hotel now."

"Gute Nacht, don't let the crazy Italian kill you in your sleep."

Ludwig let out a dark chuckle. It was the first time he'd laughed in a while, and it sent shivers up and down the spine of the man driving the boat, and Gilbert alike.

"I'd like to see him try."

"God, Lutz, that's fucking creepy! G'bye!"

"_Abschied, Bruder._"

Still shuddering, Gilbert hung up the phone and walked back to Lovino, who had been standing out of earshot.

"He'll be there in about half an hour. He has everything he needs for a demonstration of his abilities and a copy of his C.V."

"He never said any of that. You didn't even ask anything like that. And I'm not moody." His employer snapped.

Fucking _Cosa Nostra_ tapping his fucking phone.

"It's not what he said, it's what I _know_. Lutz is exceptionally . . . _German_. For fun, he cleans and goes to the gym," Gilbert's face twitched in disapproval. For fun he went to a club, got wasted and drunk-dialled Elizaveta, begging her to marry him. Maybe he should make some friends in Italy . . . aside from Lovino's girlfriend, who was friends with everyone.

"Are you sure he's your brother?" the Italian laughed; he sounded like Gil's polar opposite.

"I haven't got the balls to steal DNA from him to test it," the albino said before he could realise that he'd said something that was self-depreciating, almost insulting! He may not dare steal Lutz's DNA, but he had given the man a shot once! And sewn him up on numerous occasions. And a wounded Ludwig was akin to a wounded rhino; you stay the fuck away from that think until it dies, lest it gore you. However, the elder Vargas brother was looking at him with a mix of shock and awe,

"You haven't had the _balls_? _You_?" he asked, sounding slightly worried.

"Uh-Well, yeah. He's six-six and spends all his time at the gym. He's military trained and trigger-happy. That's not something you want to fuck around with."

"Feliciano is going to hate him."

"I apologise if your brother hates my brother; I will also apologise if and when my brother blows your brother's brains out, but right now you have an hour until you have to pick up Antonia for your date. You should get ready. I have it from her PA that she'll be wearing green to match her eyes. You should dress to match."

"Chigi. I should just kill you now and save myself future headaches."

"Who else are you going to find who won't hit on your girlfriend?"

"Shut up."

~=======oOo =======~

It was a luxurious hotel to be sure, very ornate, with splendid architecture. However, that didn't really interest Ludwig very much. What did please him, however, was that it was very clean and tidy. With a sigh, he got out the parts for the (minimalistic) three guns that he had brought across by disguising them as parts of different objects, and with several pleasing clicks, there were three hand guns lined up on the polished wood coffee table in front of him.

That done, he took his favourite, the HK tactical, with him to the bedroom; hiding the other two, one in the bathroom, and the other in the lounge.

He ordered room service and ate the delicious roast beef without comment or any outward sign of enjoyment. After his meal, he showered, scrubbing himself thoroughly and until he was slightly pink. Wearing a pair of pale blue cotton boxer shorts, he got into bed and soon fell into a deceptively light sleep. Ludwig was not a heavy sleeper, not at all.

~=======oOo =======~

Craftily, Feliciano picked the lock on the hotel room door. This was where his new keeper was sleeping. With any luck he could get this one _retired_ within the month. A big guy, Lovi had said, all work, no play, a little gym crazed. Had a resume as long as he was tall, and that was pretty fucking long if you were to believe Lovino Vargas. And Feli did. Lovi was his _fratellone_ after all. It helped that Lovi's bodyguard was this guy's brother. A German then. Perfect. That was all he needed; someone else trying to run his life _efficiently_. Just fucking perfect.

Feli stopped when he saw the shape in the bed. It was monstrous! The man must be seven foot tall! That was absurd! How did Nonno expect him to be protected by a man that large? He was probably all muscle and no brains. With a derisive _tsk_, Feliciano Vargas turned to leave.

There was something relatively small and cold pressed into the back of the Italian's head.

"_Wer bist du?"_ a voice asked, deep, cold and as unyielding as steel.

_Who are you?_

"Ve~ You sleep with a gun under your pillow, _cara_? Those are some trust issues you have there!"

There was a click as the gun at the base of Feliciano's skull was cocked.

_"Wer bist du, und warum sollte ich nicht du töten?"_

_Who are you, and why shouldn't I kill you?_

Feli grinned from ear to ear, a dark light in his eyes. He didn't know much German, but he knew enough to understand that line of questioning.

"Ve~ _Amico_. You're hired."

**Ok. Do NOT expect every chapter to be this long. Seriously. I think I died twice writing this. **

**That said, I had a load of fun doing so! Be a peach and let me know if I should continue? **

**Xens, call me when you read this, let me know what you think of these 7 pages of my life.**

**I'm going to go to bed now!**


	2. Diavolo Sorridente  Kalten Augen Satan

**This chapter was written under the influence of bad music and the fumes from 100ml of surgical alcohol I spilt on the floor an hour ago. **

**Thank you to Is a weirdo and proud of it, Raikimluva22, Catsdon'tcry , brattyteenagewerewolf, Kagay Daydreams, Gaxxy, SongOfTheShadows, iikiwiii, ShortSweet'NToThePoint, Atamashi, NyxSerpent, Dreamaker401, The Awesome Sugar Sparkles, Unknown Varaible, srebnywilk, demoneyeskyoko, New Eclipse, Cirque du Lune and Imotochan13. For all your favourites, watches and reviews ^_^**

**This is the boring chapter. The next two will be better.**

The Italian smiled a little more broadly as the gun was removed from his scalp and the safety was replaced. He turned around to make a smart comment about what an excellent idea holding your new boss at gun point was, but his voice stuck in his throat as he saw the man who was now wondering around getting ready for his day.

"You're a beast!" Feliciano half spluttered, "A German beast!"

His new bodyguard, for however long said individual held the position, was, in his own way, utterly edible. The muscles that flowed from his broad shoulders were sharp and defined beneath milky pale skin. The ridges of his abdomen were the pattern the waves leave on the white sand after high tide has receded, framed by a strong rib cage and a nipped iliac crest. The muscles must have flowed uninterrupted beneath the flimsy blue cotton, because they continued seamlessly into strong, cabled thighs and calves. Feliciano wondered idly what it would be like to be held to that sculpted body by those strong arms before prompting himself back to the business at hand,

"You got a name, _amico_?" the Italian snapped, hoping to pull the German's attention from his socks to himself.

"Ja, Herr Vargas. Beilschmidt," Ludwig answered, pulling on a pair of black dress pants. He didn't look up.

"Ve~ that come with a first name?" he probed, hoping to get something a little more than, 'yes sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir.'

"Not during business hours, Herr Vargas," was the only comment the giant German made as he buttoned up a white dress shirt. It was plain and simple; efficient.

"Call me Feliciano. Why are you getting dressed? It's three in the morning. Business is from nine to five."

"Since you woke me up, Herr Vargas," Ludwig said, calmly knotting his tie and pointedly ignoring the instruction of informality, "I assume you have something that you need me to do? Unless you would prefer that I perform whatever task it is in my undergarments? My business happens whenever it is needed," Poor Feli could only assume that God was testing him; why else would he send this ridiculously serious, ridiculously delectable man who was offering to '_perform tasks_' in his underwear!

"I need to test you reflexes and your abilities in general," the Mafioso said ticking off the things he needed to check mentally, _strength, marksmanship, speed, agility, endurance and intelligence_.

"I need you to shoot something,"

"Anything in particular, Herr Vargas?" was the only answer. No quibbles about the time of day, the location, the neighbours, or the strangeness of the request.

"Pick your least favourite object in the room and shoot it," Feli said carelessly, "I'll put it on my tab."

Casting and eye about the room, Ludwig selected a rather hideous vase on the mantelpiece. He would have preferred to get a bullet in Feliciano, but that would put him out of a job, no matter how strange the boy was. Walking over to the dressed, he squirted hair gel into the palm of his hand and began running it through his hair.

A little startled by this sudden disinterest in firearms, the Italian opened his mouth and began to complain,

"Ve~ where do you get off doing your hair whe-"

_Blam, Blam, Blam_

He blinked repeatedly as the tinkle of falling china sounded in the deafening silence that thundered in the bullets' wake. He could have sworn that he had _not_ seen the man who was now combing his ice-blond hair back into a severe style that made him look like a cross between an accountant and a General pull a gun out of the drawer, fire two shots with his left hand, toss the gun into the air, catch it with his left hand and shoot the vase again, barely glancing at his target.

"That was _Rococo_," was all Feliciano could say. _**Tick**__ for marksmanship_. . .

"I was _Revolting_," Ludwig said, shrugging on a black blazer and walking over to the pile of powdered ceramics to inspect it. He hummed in disapproval as he picked up the largest remaining fragment of the vase; it was about five centimetres squared in terms of surface area.

"I should have aimed better," he turned to face his employer, "anything else?"

"Pick me up," admittedly it wasn't a traditional test of strength, but it was something necessary; if Feli was incapacitated and needed to be removed from the area, he needed to know that _Beilschmidt_ could do it. There may or may have been a little wish fulfilment in that request, though the German's personality and doubtful humour were beginning to sorely grate his nerves.

"Fireman or bridal style?" Was this man for _real_? That was the _only_ question he asked?

"Ve~ let's try both," Feli sighed. He could feel a headache coming on.

In a stride, Ludwig had crossed the space between them, placed his hands on the Italian's sides and lifted him into the air. Feli tried not note that the large, pale hands covered almost half of his ribcage before he was slung over a broad shoulder in much the same way as a Viking would sling a maiden he intended to ravage. Ludwig walked a few experimental paces, but stopped dead when he felt something creeping lower down than was strictly necessary,

"_Bitte_, Herr Vargas, if you could remove your hands from my rear?" the hands were removed, and Feliciano giggled a little,

"_Schön arsch_!" he laughed as he was slid down to be cradled against the firm chest.

"_Danke_, but your accent is terrible; Gilbert should have taught you better,"

"Ve~! How did you know it was Gil?" Feliciano asked, perhaps this could count as a test of intelligence? Though he doubted it would.

"Well, unless you speak German, which by your horrific butchering of those two words alone, you do not, I see no other reason for you to have contact with a German other than my brother. He is also the only person I know who would teach an Italian to say '_nice arse_' in _Deutsch_."

"There's logic! C'mon, I need to make you run laps and lift weights," Feli trilled, skipping out of the room ahead of the hulking German man, his cherry-red skinny jeans and white long-sleeved shirt glowing in the golden light of the hotel's halls.

~=====oOo======~

"You can lift 250 kilos easily, you can run 100 metres in 12 seconds, your marksmanship is excellent, you passed the T-Test in eight seconds and you passed the Vmax test with flying colours," Feliciano rattled off, consulting his clipboard. It was now seven in the morning, and he had been running Beilschmidt through his passes since they had arrived at the gym, which had been opened early for a couple of hundred Euros.

"You'll do," the Italian concluded, looking up to see Ludwig re-buttoning his shirt, which he had taken off for the exercises. Once the German was fully dressed, Feliciano turned to him. He hated to admit that he had gotten sweaty just watching the amount of physical labour this man could do, but he had, and now he needed to go home, have some cannelloni, a shower and sleep before plotting his most strenuous test yet; covert operations. Given the bodyguard's size, it was going to be the most challenging. And he could get Nonno to run any prior intelligence tests when they had The Meeting the day after tomorrow. Seeing that the large German was standing patiently to attention, Feli motioned to the door of the changing room and the outside world,

"C'mon, Beast. We need to get you into something clean and neat, and show you to your new home."

"_Beast_, Herr Vargas?" Ludwig asked, following his new employer dutifully none the less.

"Ve~ You won't tell me your first name and I can't just go around introducing you as my associate '_Beilschmidt_' it doesn't have the same ring to it."

"It _is_ my name, Herr Vargas," the German said a little reproachfully.

"Ve~ you don't know much about my _family_, do you?"

"Not really, no. I can't say that I've ever worked for the mafia before today.

"Well the first thing you need is a new suit."

"I don't think that's necessary, Herr Vargas," Ludwig said feeling decidedly uncomfortable with the direction they were heading in. He didn't need a new suit; admittedly he needed to change out of the one he was currently wearing was drenched in sweat in the same way a forest is singed after a fire-storm. The material was so wet it was almost dripping, pulling stares from women and men alike as the duo walked down the pier to where the Maserati speedboat was docked.

"Ve~ Hold on to your seatbelt, Beast! We need to get to Gennaro's before lunch time! "

"What happens at lunch time?" Ludwig asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Ve~! You must really do things differently in Germany! We eat!" Feliciano crowed, going much to fast around a hairpin corner, almost capsizing a gondola as he went.

After ten minutes of the most hair-raising driving the bodyguard had ever encountered – and he had driven and ambulance with an injured soldier, a crate of eggs and two newborn children through a minefield in Afghanistan while in a high speed chase. Don't ask – they arrived at a tiny, hole-in the wall tailor.

Feliciano jumped out of the boat and pressed the buzzer with much aplomb.

"C'mon, Beast!" he called, "Gennaro can't take your measurements in a boat!"

Thinking that he had got himself into decidedly more trouble than this job was worth, no matter how much it may or may not pay, Ludwig hauled himself from the boat and up the pier to the little shop. A man of about sixty opened the door, his creased face trembling slightly as he beheld the unlikely pair before him. Worryingly, Ludwig noted that the old man shook more when he saw Feliciano than when he saw the German. When your five-eight, smiling boss scares people more than you do, it's possibly time to find a new line of work.

"Ve~! Gennaro! _Buon Giorno_! _E 'stato troppo lungo_," the Mafioso greeted the man, who was obviously Gennardo, with a kiss on each cheek, "_Ho portato__un amico!__Il suo nome è__Bestia.__Farai__gli si addice__, sì_?" _I brought a friend, his name is Beast. You'll make him a suit, yes?_

"_Sì, posso farlo, il signor Vargas_," Gennaro agreed miserably; _yes, I can do that, Mr Vargas_. At this point, though only a few minutes and sentences had passed between the two Italians, Ludwig felt his head beginning to spin; he didn't understand a word of Italian and he could understand now how this was going to present a very serious problem.

"_Bene! Andiamo allora ad esso. Prendere le sue misure, e io vi dirò cosa fare_."Feliciano said, with worrying relish, _Good, take your measurements and I'll tell you what to make_. Trembling with fright, the old man motioned to Ludwig,

"_Vieni qui per favore, signore,_" he said, _come here please, sir._

"He wants you to stand there and be measured," Feli translated gleefully, knowing the slightly bemused look on his employee's face as that of one who didn't speak a language they were suddenly immersed in. Gerrano muttered something and dragged a small stepladder over from the corner of the room. Feliciano laughed,

"He says that you are too big to be a man, so it is good that you are called Beast!" Ludwig sent up a silent prayer to whosoever should deign to watch over him that, should aforementioned unnamed deity get him out of this mess in one piece and _without_ a new suit, he would make a decent man of himself. However celestial beings obviously had a cruel streak, or at least a twisted sense of humour and a taste for human suffering, because twenty minutes later the German was still being stuck with needles while the two Italians gabbled away, happily or unreasonably terrified depending on which one you were talking about. Occasionally Feliciano would translate whatever Gennaro was saying, but with a smile on his face that lead Ludwig to think that the old man had said otherwise.

With finality in his grip, after almost forty-five minutes of being pinned, prodded, bedecked in the multi-coloured streamers of measuring tapes and being forced into several different styles of jacket, Gennaro squeezed Ludwig's bicep and beckoned Feliciano to a small counter with an antique cash register and a state-of the-art credit-card reading facility. Feli swiped his shiny plastic rectangle through the machine, which beeped cheerfully and told the Italians that the purchase was official.

"_Voglio che il tuxedo da domani_," the red-head said, no argument brooked, _I want the tuxedo by tomorrow._

"_Ma, signore! Non è possibile_!" The elder man quaked visibly and Ludwig could tell that he was not happy to be saying what he was. _But, sir! It's impossible!_

"Io non sono irragionevoli, Gennaro. Voglio solo il tuxedo," Feliciano's voice was soft enough to be mistaken for politeness, even friendliness by those unused to it, but deadly enough to fell an elephant should the need arise. The German knew that tone well, he had used it many times himself, _I'm not being unreasonable, Gennaro. I only want the tuxedo_.

"_Sì, signore_," the old man folded miserably. A little hope, a little pleading crept into his voice as he asked, "_E i miei Sophia? Come sta_?" _And my Sophia, how is she?_

"_Oh, sì. Bene bene." Oh, yes. Fine, fine_. With an airy flutter of his talkative hands and a serine smile on his lips, Feliciano walzed out the door. Ludwig made to follow when a wrinkled hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve. Gennaro was looking at him with a look so desperate it would have made Hitler's heart bleed. Unfortunately for the Italian, had the Third Reich been under the command of Ludwig Beilschmidt, the world would presently be speaking German. Choosing not to acknowledge the look of distaste the larger man now wore, Gennaro spoke in broken English,

"_Signore_, my daughter, _mio Sophia_. You are big man. Protect her, _per favore_! _Il Diavolo Sorridente, _he have _mio Sophia_! She is youngest girl. _Per favore signore_, show some mercy to a father? I no work, he kill her, _per favore_!"

With eyes as cold and icy blue as the deepest parts of a glacier, Ludwig appraised the quivering man, who now had large, tears splashed across his face and snot dribbling unchecked into the whiskers of his upper lip. A small smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

"I was a father once," he said, using the same tone of voice Feliciano had earlier. Gennaro was familiar enough with that tone to fear for his life, and doubly so for that of his youngest daughter.

"What happen?" the Italian asked, hoping against hope that he wasn't actually going to be told.

"I shot her."

As Ludwig walked out of the shop he heard the little man behind him break down utterly. Perhaps this job was going to be more fun than he had first thought.

**DUNDUNDUNDUN.**

**I did warn you this was going to be dark stuff. And apparently all the chapters ARE going to be this long. Anyway. You guys have no idea the shit I'm getting into for writing instead of working, what with finals coming up and all, and I spent all day drawing dumb fanart. **

**Again, anywho, thank you to all me reviewers, I hope this didn't bore you too much. And a special thanks to my very own Prussia and Germany, who kick my North Italian butt into actually working/writing/not failing high school and who help me with ideas. Onward to the fun chapters. ^_^**

**~RutheLa**


	3. Dirty Dancing

**Ok! **

**Hi there Kiko33, LilyGeek-x3, Axxi and Kira1525! Glad you could join us. ^_^**

**New Eclipse get's a big shout out because I ran around the house squeezing for about 20 minutes after I got her review. Thank you also to brattyteenagewerewolf, LilyGeek-x3, SongOfTheShadows and Dreamaker401 for their sweet reviews. ^_^**

**Again, thank you to Prussia (woodbyne) and Germany (brattyteenagewerewolf) who make sure I don't fail my final year, and that I brush my teeth and update my stories. **

**This **_***IS***_** a romance. Just warning those of you who weren't sure. **

Yesterday had been productive, Feliciano thought as he idly flicked through a glossy magazine, eating his gelato as flirtatiously as possible while shooting sidelong glances at a pretty girl who was sitting a few seats away. She smiled back at him, and he grinned widely.

"Ve~ Beast, relax a little. Take a load off," he whined, twisting so that he lay on his back and pushing his sunglasses back from his face, "go flirt with a girl, or a boy, I don't really care. Just stop standing in my sun!"

"That would be neglecting my duties as your bodyguard, Herr Vargas," Ludwig answered calmly, stepping to the side so as to allow more sun onto the glowing bronze skin. The Italian had decided that he would like to stay at the Bauer a little bit longer, so he could pick up his _package_ in piece. Once that was done, the evening would be perfect. But right now it was late morning and there was a pretty girl smiling at him. He winked at her and beckoned her over. She checked over her shoulder exaggeratedly looking for whomever he could have been calling, because it couldn't _possibly_ have been her.

'_Me_?' she mouthed, glancing up through thick dark lashes with chocolate brown eyes.

'_You!_' Feliciano mouthed, pointing a finger-gun at her and pulling the trigger. The girl made a big show of being hit and got up to walk over. Ludwig gave her a once over. She was pretty, mocha skin, mahogany hair tied into pigtails by red ribbon and a turquoise bikini that barely hid her, never mind any sort of weapon.

"Are you a mirage?"Feliciano asked with a rakish smile, "you're far too beautiful to be real." The girl blushed, and Ludwig noted that she couldn't be more than nineteen.

"I'm not a mirage, but I am a Michelle," she giggled, a slightly French lilt to her accent.

"A lovely name for a lovely woman," the Italian purred, "where are you from, Michelle?"

"Seychelles," she cooed, leaning forwards so that their faces were barely inches apart.

"Michelle from Seychelles," he sighed dreamily.

"Please, call me Chelles," she tittered, twirling her hair around her index finger, enhancing its natural curl.

Feliciano leant back and poked Ludwig in the leg, "Ve~ amico? Be a friend and get Chelles and I a drink will you?"

"If that's what you want, Herr Vargas," the German said doubtfully. It was against protocol to leave one's principal alone without supervision. His employer must have seen his reluctance to leave, because his grin broadened by several molars,

"C'mon, Beast, be a peach. _Anschlag Hahn Blockierende mich_." Had Ludwig not been skilled in hiding his emotions, he would have choked on his own spit with shock; '_stop cock-blocking me'_? Gilbert had _so _much to answer for. With a long-suffering sigh, he turned to _Chelles_,

"What would the Fräulein like to drink?" he asked.

"A martini!" she said gleefully. The bodyguard thought to himself that personality-wise these two were a perfect match.

"What a wonderful idea, _amore_, I think I'll have one too! Dirty," he added, giving the girl a smouldering look. She blushed and muttered her agreement.

As he walked off, Ludwig heard them talking,

"Beast? Is he your bulter?"

"No, _cara_, he's mu bodyguard," Feliciano boasted, "he's German."

"Ooh! Really? Is that way he sounds so rough? '_Vhat vud ser Vr-ow-line like tzu drrrink?_'" she giggled in an impersonation of a German accent so bad that it made Ludwig grind his teeth. He could have _sworn _he'd gotten rid of that habit.

What a nightmare. He was playing happy-manservant to some layabout playboy whose sexual orientation appeared to be '_everything that moves_' and ordered him about like he was a child. It was going to take all his vast stock of patience to deal with this frivolous man-child.

"What can I do for you, signore?" the bartender asked as Ludwig rubbed his temples.

"Two martinis please," he sighed.

"Dry?"

"Nein, I said tw- No, thank you. Dirty." He said, mentally beating himself about the head with a stick. What a stupid mistake, and over such trivial matters. With what, had his face not been so impassive, could have been mistaken for a glum expression on his face, Ludwig watched the bartender shake together the drinks and handed them over.

"Room number?" the bartender asked, "unless you'd like to pay cash?"

"407." It was Feliciano's room.

"Signore _Vargas_?" the man asked, looking sceptical.

"That would be my employer. The one being publically indecent by the pool," he waved a hand in Feliciano's general direction, where said Italian was winning a rather interesting game of tonsil hockey.

"Right. Enjoy your martinis, signore."

"They're not for me."

His mood slightly fouler for the experience, the German walked back to the publically affectionate pair and gave them their drinks,

"Ve~ Beast, grazie!" Feliciano smiled his sunny smile and turned back to Michelle, chatting about inane things and periodically swapping saliva. That, sadly, was how the rest of Ludwig's morning continued.

~====o)O(o====~

After lunch – Feliciano had cannelloni; Ludwig had a sandwich – the little Italian skipped all the way to the front desk in high spirits that could only bode ill for his unfortunate bodyguard.

"_Mi scusi__,__è il pacchetto__di__Feliciano__Vargas__ancora qui_?" he asked, leaning over the counter and invading the concierge's personal space something wicked. _Has the package for Feliciano Vargas arrived yet?_

"_Si signore_!" he man said, taking several quick steps backwards. Unthinkingly, Ludwig hooked a finger into the back of Feliciano's collar and pulled him back down to earth.

"Let the man breathe, Herr Vargas," he reprimanded, just as he would a child. It was a reflex action, one gleaned from years of childcare. Surprisingly enough, he received no tongue lashing for his rash tug, but rather a slightly embarrassed "Ve~"

The concierge had meanwhile pulled out two large, flat rectangular boxes, one larger than the other. He gave the boxes to Ludwig and a clipboard to Feli to sign. With a flourish, the Italian penned his name and took the larger box from his bodyguard; it was black with a bow on top, leaving the German holding a white box with the word Gennaro printed in black on the lid.

"That's for you, Beast!" Feli sang as the elevator doors slid closed, "You have until 7 pm to find yourself a suitable alias for a charity ball. _Capito?" Understand?_

"Ja, Herr Vargas."

"_Bene_. I'll be in my room if I need you." The elevator dinged and he skipped out and to his own door, leaving Ludwig and his box to walk to his own room in peace.

~====o)O(o====~

Long, pale fingers, their nails short and practical buttoned up a clean black shirt, covering it with a black waistcoat that bore the sheen of satin. The blazer was perfectly fitted – allowing movement while still looking fit to be presented to royalty. A pair of wire-framed glasses were perched on a strong, aquiline nose.

The bowtie posed no problem for those dexterous fingers, though Ludwig had to admit it; fire engine red was not really his colour. Black, however was. He picked up the laminated card that had the name _Dr. Johan Gerber_ printed on it, with a photo of himself.

Sighing, Ludwig slipped on his shoes –freshly polished – and stepped outside. There was a woman in a red dress standing in the hallway with her back to him. Copper-coloured hair fell in unruly licks to the nape of her neck from a high pony tail secured with a deep burgundy bow that matched the gloves that stretched from fingertip to mid-bicep.

The dress was high-backed and a brilliant shade of fire-engine red. There was a collection of ruffles at the back that resembled a bustle, and the skirt flowed out to a pointed train.

Where was Feliciano? Maybe this woman had seen him.

"_Mi scusi, signorina? Parli inglese_?" he asked, _Excuse me, miss? Do you speak English?_

"Si, signore, what is it?_" _she asked, turning to him. Ludwig could not deny that she was beautiful, her hair framed the flushed skin of her face, her lips as red as her dress. Eyes glittering and golden as honey, framed by the thick black wings of her lashes looked down the sweet curve of her nose. The ream of silk that was her skin cascaded down her sculpted neck, which was emphasised by a burgundy ribbon. Her chest was flat, but anything else would have clashed vulgarly with her slim, gymnast's figure. It and been a year since he had looked at a woman and seen beauty. He was not glad of the thaw in his heart, because there were memories there he want to keep, perfect and frozen, for all time.

"Have you seen a man pass through here? He would have been a little shorter than you, with the same colour hair and- _Mein Gott! Herr __**Vargas**_?"

Ludwig could feel a blush warming his cheeks and then instantly cooled by the desire to find the nearest toilet bowl and puke his guts out; to vomit until the taste of regret had left his mouth and the acid of his stomach burned his throat and mind so far beyond thinking and feeling that he could never again make this mistake again. To vomit until all his senses; sight, taste, smell, touch and hearing, were so dulled by his own upheavals that he would no longer care about this trivial error that was making the blood in his head pound so terribly.

Those ruby painted lips split into a mischievous grin that threw the entire ensemble off kilter. He could see now the attachments for hair extensions, the flatness of chest that was not from smallness of breasts but by the absence thereof.

Ludwig could feel his bile rising. This was so horribly, horribly wrong. Why, in the name of all that was holy was his crazy employer dressed as a woman? He knew that some men did enjoy cross-dressing, but to this extent? The skill with which the makeup was applied indicated long hours of practise, or many, many instances of this behaviour. And to think that- no. That was not something that bore thinking about, though the thought would doubtless invade his mind and poison his slumber later that night.

"Ve~ Beast, you're pretty sharp!" Feliciano trilled in what the German could now hear was a falsetto voice, "It usually takes people longer than that to figure it out."

"That's why I'm a doctor," Ludwig said, his outer calm not betraying the yo-yo of emotions he now felt. Disgust, horror, revulsion, shame, embarrassment. Admittedly this was a terrible yo-yo because it seemed to only have a negative path, but to be honest, the German man couldn't really see an upside to this situation, and his stomach churned. He felt sweaty, dizzy and nauseas. His irritating, superficial, stupid, grinning mobster boss? That flash of attraction, that taint on his dear Monika's memory?

Maybe it was too soon.

It was too soon.

It was definitely too soon.

He should just go back to almost shooting snobby Austrian composers.

Fuck that. It was time to get back into the swing of things. He missed proper employment; he was going stir crazy back home in Berlin.

It was just as well that Gil had called when he did, or else Ludwig might just have _actually_ shot Roderich. But now that Gil had called, he had unleashed a whole other monster on Venice; one that was trained to show o fear, one that prided itself on efficiency, skill and a talent for execution style shootings.

"Beast? _Beast_! Don't space out like that!"

"My apologies, Frau Vargas," still the taste of bile lingered, "I was admiring your dress." And sarcasm, no matter how subtle, wasn't really helping all that much.

"Oh, please, call me Feliciana!" he trilled, hiding his face demurely.

"And what exactly is our aim this evening, _Feliciana_?" _Humour him, and this will all go away, humour him and this will all go away . .._

"Tonight, _Dottore Gerber_, we are going to have a little competition. We are going to see who shall be the first to incapacitate a certain person without arousing any suspicion from the other partygoers. Does that sound like your kind of fun?"

"That sounds like excellent fun," the tiniest of smiles quirked at Ludwig's lips, "but why exactly did you feel the need to dress like a woman?" he asked, there must be a logical explanation for this. If there wasn't then the German may just explode from the irrationality of it all.

Feliciano picked at his dress,

"Ve~? This? I thought you might prefer it, you being straight and sexually repressed, I didn't think you would appreciate going to a charity benefit with a man as your date. Also, I just like to dress up."

There perfectly logical. Perfectly logical. There was no need for explosions, implosions, or that pesky little tic that had started up in the German's left eye.

"How considerate of you."

And once again, the consideration that perhaps he was no longer suited to this lifestyle popped into his head.

Or that he and this insane Italian were going to kill each other within the month.

~====o)O(o====~

It was those four words, in the end, that spelt Ludwig's ultimate downfall;

"Ve~ _Bello_, let's dance!" The music was starting, it was fast, sensuous; the tango.

"_Feliciana_, I don't know if this is appropriate. . ."

"_Per favore_, Beast? We don't have to tango if you don't know how –" he began, pouting ridiculously.

"Of course I can tango," Ludwig interjected, "but as your -"

"Fine then, if you're not up to it –" and he snapped.

Seizing Feliciano by the wrist, he stood, pulling the other ma with him, the anger that he had – for himself and for his nerve-grating boss – held back by a fraying leash. With a fierce fire in his cyan eyes, the German man growled out,

"You only had to ask, _liebling_, and I would have said yes!" His teeth were gritted; his muscled clenched and straining for movement. Feliciano, much smaller than his companion started back into the feral eyes in alarm,

"Dance with me?" he whispered, eyes a little frightened, body shaking slightly, pressed near flush against Ludwig's.

"_Wie Sie wünschen, Liebe_," he hissed viciously; _as you wish, sweet_. With a violence he would not normally have used on one in woman's clothing – be their gender male or female – Ludwig swung Feliciano on to the dance floor, grabbing him roughly, not so much leading the dance as pushing the Italian in the direction he wanted him to go. Chest to chest they marched along, the bodyguard's hand pressed more firmly than necessary against the smaller man's back.

"Beast, please, slow down?" Feliciano hissed, as he was once more thrown into a new direction.

"Ah, _Feliciana_," there was a dangerous light in Ludwig's eyes, "I thought you wanted to _dance_?"

"_Beilschmidt_! Stop this, _per favore_!" the German pressed closer as the music reached its climax leaning forwards until the Italian was forced backwards into a dip so low that it was necessary for him to hook his leg around Ludwig's to stop himself falling to the floor.

The large hands which only yesterday Feli had so admired were now digging into his back, the eyes he had thought pretty were boring into his soul like pneumatic drills. His skirts a mess, his hair a little wild, and tears of humiliation at being thus handled were beginning to sting his eyes,

"You're hurting me," he whispered.

Ludwig looked down at the small man. His lipstick needed to be reapplied and his mascara was smudged, but there was an innocence that the German had not seen there before; one reawakened by the presence of fear. Slowly, he unwound the slim leg that had thrown itself about his own and pulled his dance partner up from the swoop of the dip. The milling crowd at the fringes of the dance floor applauded and dispersed.

Leaning in close, Ludwig whispered; "Your man is unconscious in the bathroom, second stall on the left," and without a backwards glance, he walked back to the table.

Feliciano stood alone on the floor, his legs trembling slightly. That had to be the most exciting, adrenaline packed ten minutes of his life thus far.

Then and there Feliciano Vargas promised himself that he would _never_ let Beilschmidt leave. He was the _perfect _bodyguard.

**Hands up who spotted my really bad bilingual joke?**

**There is a link to Feli's dress in Woodbyne's profile, I hope you all enjoy it ^_^**

**Also, for those of you who want to know more about this mysterious "Monika" and Ludwig's back story, stick around, the next chapter will reveal. . . well, not all, but a lot. **

**Also, it might take a while. My holiday ends on Monday, and I have work to do T_T**

**~ RutheLa**


	4. Reschedule That Meeting, Will You?

**This one's for Oreocooky, who thinks she might be in love. ^_^**

**So many new people and reviews! Such love! To the following, a font of love and internet cookies;**

**BTW, Gaxxy, RomaneLuka, NewEclipse, Oreocooky, SongOfTheShadows, Woodst and Kiko33.**

**I write this to a lot of weird stuff (Because I was asked what music I listened to for chapter 2). The **_**Arrogant Worms**_** mostly, and Joan Jett's **_**Cherry Bomb**_**. How did I write this to that? **

**And of course, when writing anything about Spain, I immediately put on Shakira's **_**Hips Don't Lie**_**. **

**Duuude. I have **_**no**_** idea. **

_A child's laughter echoed through the darkened halls, beckoning towards the light streaming through the open door. _

_He burst through the doorway into a bright field. A little girl spotted him and ran forwards. As she ran, her tiny hands plucked at the blue and white flowers, collecting a haphazard posy. _

"Willkommen zu Hause, Papa_!" she cried, offering up the bunch of flowers, welcome home, _Daddy_._

"Danke, Louise. Ich liebe dich_," he smiled fondly, smoothing the long ringlets, the exact shade of his own hair, over the missing piece of skull his bullet had made. _I love you_._

"Ich liebe dich, auss, Papa_," she smiled her child's smile, kissing him on each cheek. _I love you, too.

"Und liebst du mich, Ludwig_?" a voice asked behind him, sending a thrill of sadness down his spine, _And do you love me_?_

"Ich könnte nie aufhören dich zu lieben, Monika_," he turned around. There she was, as beautiful as she had ever been. Her short hair messy, but controlled, and as golden as wheat was only marred by the blood that caused it to clump at her temples. Her eyes were a brilliant cornflower blue, the exact replicas of which sat in their child's face. She was everything he was not, passionate, whimsical and beautiful, though somehow she still controlled herself perfectly, never forgot a thing, was never impolite or improper. Though they shared the same colouring, hers was vibrant, gold and sapphire to his platinum and ice. How could he not love anything that completed him so perfectly? _I could never stop loving you_. _

"Tanz mit mir, mein Schatz, du liebst tanzen_," __he said, offering an arm for her to take. _Dance with me, my darling, you love to dance_. Monika shook her head sadly, tears sparkling in the eyes he loved so much. _

"Ich kann nicht. Du tanzte mit ihm." I can't. You danced with him_. Instead of taking his hand, she placed an object in it. _

"Begleiten Sie mich zunächst." Join me first_. Looking at the gun, Ludwig raised it to his lips and opened his mouth. Anything for Monika. Anything for her. _

Ludwig sat bolt upright in bed, the sound of gunfire ringing in his ears. It took him a second to realise that it was not a leftover from his dream but was coming from the next room, Feliciano's room.

Pausing only long enough to grab his gun, he ran into the next room, only to find Feliciano standing over a corpse, revolver in hand, and speaking into a cell phone,

" . . ._Si, grazie_ Nicky," he flicked the phone shut and turned to the man in the doorway.

"You're thirty seconds too late, and you look like shit," Feli paused and looked again, "Ve~ You really _do_ look like shit. Go put on something casual. We have a meeting after breakfast."

~====o)O(o====~

The man in the throne like leather chair was remarkably good looking for his age. He credited good genes and a good life. Most other people said he bathed in the blood of his victims, and it gave him eternal life.

He had actually tried it once, just to see if it really worked. It hadn't. In fact it had been really gross.

No one knew his name. Some said Romeo, on account of the hundreds of women and men he had wooed, some said Romulus, as he had the entirety of Italy under his thumb.

He preferred to be called _Nonno Roma_.

Nonno Roma stared down his nose at his eldest grandson, who sat moodily across the desk from him.

"I can't believe you brought her here, Lovino. You are my heir. I need you strong; she will make you weak," the old man sighed.

"She makes me stronger, Nonno. I need her. I want her to know what I do, so that she knows what she's getting into."

"And if she doesn't accept your proposal? You'll have to kill her."

"Then I will."

"Very-" before he could finish his sentence, Feliciano burst into the room, Ludwig at his heels. Utter chaos ensued. Gilbert, who had been sitting in a corner leapt to his feet yelling,

"Lutz! I bet you missed me, didn't you?" Feli joined in with,

"Your name is Lutz? Why couldn't you just say that?"

"Gil, that's unprofessional, and my name is not Lutz!"

"Don't be like that, bro. Lookit you! Even dressed casually!"

"Ve~ Really I thought He was joking when he said that was casual!"

"Ah, Feli, my cute little grandson! How good to see you!"

"Does that man look like he would joke? Believe me, I'm awesome. Besides, see? He's not wearing a tie!"

"It's good to see you, too, Nonno!"

"Chigi~ Don't you ever knock, pasta-for-brains?"

"Ok, now everybody just shut up!" Roma yelled, pounding his fist onto the desk.

"Lovi, call your Antonia in here, then we can begin."

"Ve~ Lovi, I always knew you and Antonia would get married!" Feli smiled happily, earning himself a punch to the shoulder, or what would have been had Ludwig not stopped his fist. The dark haired Italian looked the German over wearily and continued out of the room. A few minutes later, he returned with a Latin woman with dark curled hair and green eyes in a red business suit. She looked sharp and professional. Ludwig liked her. This impression was re-written the second she spoke,

"_Hola_, everyone! I'm so pleased my _tomatito_ could bring me to this meeting," she was obviously some kind of insane mother-figure.

Lovino went bright red, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a slur of "shut up", "I love you," and "you're welcome."

"It is a pleasure to have such a beautiful woman in our midst," Roma purred, standing and kissing her hand. She blushed and moved closer to Lovino.

"Let's get down to business; Feli's new bodyguard, Ludwig Beilschmidt," he looked up from the paper he was reading from and stared long and hard at each of the brothers before speaking again,

"Boys, I hate to say this, but your mama was screwing the milkman. There's just no way you can be this different," he concluded.

"That sir, is untrue," Ludwig said, "I tested out DNA. Gilbert is indeed my brother, however while Gil resembles our mother in many ways, aside from his albinism, I am a product of recessive genes, and therefore look like our grandfather."

"Right. Well, that's good to know," Roma continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, "You had one year's compulsory military service when you were eighteen and stayed for two. You have been in martial arts training since age eleven, and you were a mercenary for three years, after which you got out to become a bodyguard. That was two years ago, _si_? You're twenty-eight?"

"_Ja, Herr_," Ludwig said, looking coolly at the old man across from him, and ignoring the stares from everyone bar his brother.

"It says you had two – what are these? Blemishes? – on your record," he continued, "There was an instance where two civilians were killed in friendly fire, and I called Roderich Edelstein yesterday and he said you _quit_ _at gun-point_?"

"Ja, that is correct. The civilians were Monika and Louise Beilschmidt. And given the opportunity, anyone would hold Herr Edelstein at gun-point." _Please let him not ask . . ._

It was Feliciano who asked, and Ludwig in that moment wished with all his heart that the stupid boy would trip into a ditch full of plague victims,

"Monika and Louise _Beilschmidt_? Ve~ Beast, were they relatives?" Thankfully Gilbert chipped in before he could answer. Maybe the absent minded little twit would forget.

"_Beast_? Why in the hell are you calling him _Beast_? It suits him, but why?"

"He wouldn't tell me his name!" Lovino and Nonno Roma rolled their eyes and gave simultaneous sighs.

"Go figure," the albino grinned, and leant back, a slight challenge in his eyes, arms folded, legs crossed, "Now, Lutz, answer the question." It was going to happen sooner or later, Gil reasoned.

Internally cursing his brother to an early grave, Ludwig opened his mouth and let out a sigh before answering,

"Monika was my wife, and Louise was my daughter. While I was a mercenary, I ran with some bad people. Two years ago I got away, but last year they wanted me to do a job with them, I said no. As I was coming home from work a week later I saw them following me. I went inside and shot my wife, and then I went outside and shot my daughter," he paused and continued more quietly, "At least they weren't alive to experience what those men did. I am only one man, I couldn't stop them."

The silence wailed about the room, shrieking its sorrow into every ear.

"Ve~ Ludwig I am very sorry for –" Feli began, touching his fingertips to the large man's shoulder. The German shrugged them off.

"Don't be. Please excuse me for a moment, _Herrs, Frau_," he nodded to them, standing and exiting the room.

With a slightly worried grin Gilbert spoke into the continued silence,

"You people have no fucking _idea_ the kind of cataclysmic _shit_ you have just got yourselves into," he said with a little laugh. Of course, he had helped.

"How do you mean?" Antonia asked from the corner that Gilbert had vacated not a few minutes before.

"He's not emotional. _At all_. You asked - _Gottverdamt_, I'll go make sure he doesn't break anything too valuable. You better thank my awesome self when you find your Ming, or what-fucking-ever intact!"

The door slammed shut.

"I asked, I'll go see how they're doing," Feliciano's chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor, and even though he shut the heavy wooden door behind him his footsteps could be heard echoing down the hall outside.

"Soooooooooo," Antonia said, looking between Lovino and Roma, "how are you Roma?"

~====o)O(o====~

Feli looked in every room all the way down the hall, finding them all to be empty. Finally, in the second to last, he heard voices;

"Lutz, are you _sure_ it's not too soon? It's only been a year, and throwing yourself into work is not the way to go," Gil was sounding unusually reasonable. Had the word gone mad?

"What do you know, Gilbert? What the hell do you know? _Gottverdamt_, do you think I want to _forget_ them? Do you think I _could_? I shot them in the _head_, Gilbert. They were in my arms. I killed them and I still couldn't stop it! You didn't see what they did to my Monika, Gil. My little Louise," he choked on the name, "They were _dead_, damn it, _dead_, and I still couldn't stop it. So what if I throw myself into work? So _what_, Gilbert?"

"Lutz . . ."

"TELL ME!" Ludwig roared, and Feli dared peep around the half closed door. The two Germans were on opposite sides of the billiards table, and the taller was leaning across it, his face paler than usual while the elder looked unusually melancholy, "WHAT SHOULD I DO, GILBERT? BECAUSE YOU'VE OBVIOUSLY SHOT YOUR OWN FAMILY BEFORE! WHAT SHOULD I DO? What should I do?"

"I don't know."

"Right. Of course you don't. That's the one thing you've never done, right? You've never killed anyone, have you? _WELL __**I**__ HAVE_, _BRUDER_! I WAS IN A _WAR_! I DON'T EVEN _KNOW _HOW MANY PEOPLE I'VE KILLED!"

"Ludwig . . ."

"You wanted to know, didn't you? You never asked what happened, because you knew I'd tell you. And you wanted to know so very much. I can see it in your eyes, I'm right. You let them ask. You could have stopped it. You could have stopped it," Lutz let his head hang for a second, and Gilbert walked around the table, putting a hand on Ludwig's shoulder.

"C'mon Lutz. Deck me and get it over with," he sighed, "you know it'll make you feel better."

"I'm not going to hit you," the taller muttered. By this time Feliciano was in the room, watching the scene play out.

"Yes you are. You'll feel better and you can you can go back to being stuffy and repressed,"

"Ve~ He's not repressed!" the little Italian piped up from where he stood, ignoring the sharp and decidedly frantic slicing motion the elder German was making in front of his throat, "You should see him dance!"

_Well_, Gil thought resignedly, _now we're __**really**__ fucked._

"_Bitte_, Feli, stay out of this-" but it was too late, Ludwig rounded on his boss with renewed murder in his eyes,

"You! _Herr Vargas_! I don't know what you did last night, but you are insane! That dress and that hair and WHY? Because you thought I'd LIKE it and _Gottverdamt_ if I didn't but THAT IS NOT THE POINT HERE!" he advanced on Feliciano, who drew his gun and aimed it,

"That's right, fire at me. Fire me. I can't work with you Herr Vargas. I cannot so," he grabbed the Italian's wrist and jammed the muzzle of the gun to his own throat, "I quit. Pull. The. Trigger."

The Beretta clattered to the floor, fallen from Feli's shaking hand.

"I'm not going to let you leave, Ludwig," he said, with a slight quaver in his voice, backed against a wall as he was, "You are the best, and I'm not letting you go."

"And why no-" there was an almighty crash as Gilbert brought a solid oak chair down on Ludwig's head. The younger German whirled around snarling, "_Was zum Teufel ist los mit dir, Gilbert?_" before he crumbled to the floor. Feli's knees gave out and he sank to the floor besides his unconscious bodyguard.

"What the fuck does he mean, '_What the hell is wrong with you_?'? What the fuck is wrong with _him_? You should fire him for that," the albino said, "I know I would."

"Are you joking? All I have to do is figure out how to point him in the right direction and I have a weapon of mass destruction," the Italian gave a shaky laugh and paused, "Is he always like this?"

"Only after he's killed his wife and child," was the tart response. Setting the chair back in its original position, Gilbert walked towards the door. As he was halfway out, he stopped,

"No more dresses, Feli, no more dancing."

"Ve~ Why not?" was the petulant reply.

"Monika was a dancer; she taught him everything he knows. I'm actually surprised you managed to convince him to dance in the first place. It must have been one hell of a dress."

"Yeah," Feliciano whispered, looking at the body at his feet, "yeah, it was."

**Ok. Sooooooo. I hope that quelled much curiosity.**

**What is wrong with this picture? I know nothing about mafia life. That must be it. Nope, noooo. Ah! It's only a day or so after my last update and I have another one ready. What the fuck?**

**I wanted to get this one in before school on Monday, where after updates will become decidedly less frequent. As I think I mentioned, high school senior, final year, second last term, exams coming out of my eyeballs, blah, blah, blah. ^_^**

**Enjoy, be a peach and leave me a review? They make me so happy.**

**~RutheLa**


	5. Of Shit And Fans

**Guys, my matric dance (senior prom) was on Saturday the 23rd, and it was a GERMAN SPARKLE PARTY. Well, I threw my ***_**Italian***_** glitter stick at people until my Prussia and my Romano had sparkly breasts, Germany had it on her cheeks and Prussia's date was mildly traumatized. **

**Glitter stick is **_**not**_** an innuendo.**

**For those of you who read Jilly Cooper's **_The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous_**; Roderich is my Rannaldini. **

**Meet a short chapter filled with crap side story and build up for plot. Which will kick in all its preposterousness sometime now-ish. Seriously. The shit I come up with, you will not believe. None of the characters believe it either. **

**Stripes93, you are the bombdiggity! **

**On that note, this is going to get a little cracky!**

He was noticing the little things. The little things his eyes had picked up on that night at the charity benefit. And now they were driving him insane. They were things he wouldn't have normally noticed. Things he wasn't particularly interested in noticing about a man, and things he certainly shouldn't be noticing about his boss. Wonderful. Just peachy.

They were things like the healthy multi-tonal copper of his hair. Things like the lashes of his eyes, which he had assumed were fake; but were indeed naturally thick and dark. The quick, lithe movements. The flutter of those talkative hands. The wide and ever-present smile, however Stepford it may be.

Once more gritting his teeth – he was going to have to find a decent dentist in Italy – he resumed watching his absentminded employer flirting with two Asian girls. One was wearing a pale pink dress with black lace. A matching pink blossom was tucked into her long brunette hair. She seemed to be spurning the affection she was lavished with, so Feliciano focused on the other girl.

Her inky black hair was bobbed just below her ears and her fringe cut just above her eyebrows in a perfectly straight line. This girl was wearing a bright pink boob-tube top with white sleeves that started at her shoulders and belled out at the wrists. The little modesty afforded by her black miniskirt was added to by the garter-like trousers that started halfway up her thighs. Her platform boots and the abundance of leather straps that festooned her slight body were adorned with vicious spikes and studs. With a well hidden shiver of disgust, Ludwig noted that what he had at first glance thought to be a patterned leotard was a mesh of tattoos.

There were geisha's fighting samurai with bladed fans, tigers, dragons and koi fish all painted with the utmost skill. A tree grew from the waistband of her skirt and shed pale pink blossoms over the aftermath of a war. A few characters rained down from the branches too. 死の愛人 they read. A wave lapped at the pale skin of her neck.

She was soft spoken and seemed utterly impervious to Feliciano's advances, however, unlike her friend, she was not openly rejecting the Italian. Her deep brown eyes, surrounded as they were by dark makeup, remained impassive. The German bodyguard didn't trust this girl. Something about her sat ill with him. However Feli was _not_ going to thank him for dragging him away from a potential lay on only a hunch.

Resigning himself to a dentist's appointment, lest he crack his teeth, Ludwig settled in to wait at Feliciano's shoulder until the Italian dragged on or both of these girls into a dark corner and/or bedroom.

~====o)0(o====~

"So," Gil tried to sound casual, but he never seemed to manage it around Elizaveta, "I know you have some time off coming up, and I figured it would be awesome if you could head down here and spend it with me. Free holiday in Italy?"

"I can't, Gil," she sighed, her voice terse. What was up? The German wondered. Usually she would jump at the chance to spend time with his awesome self.

"C'mon Lizavet, jump on a plane! You'll be here in under a day. I'll pay for your ticket, and you can stay with me!"

"No, Gilbert!" she said, her voice shaking.

"Don't make me beg, Lizavet, I miss you." He wasn't going to admit it but Lutz's outburst last week had rattled him a little. What if Elizaveta were hurt? There were so many things that he wanted to say to her. That he loved her. That he wanted to settle down with her. He was thirty-two, damn it! He couldn't expect her to wait for him forever.

"I can't fly," she said, the shaking still in her voice.

"Then hop on a Eurorail! Why can't you be here? I'd come to you but I can't get away from work."

"I don't want to see you!" she burst out, and Gilbert's ego deflated like a cannonball had punched a hole in it. Silence stretched out before the German like a road with no horizon, no vanishing point. _But . . ._

"I had an affair with Roderich Edelstein! God, Gil, I'm so sorry! It was just after you left and I was so sad and he was so nice and now I'm pregnant and I just-" she spluttered, the words spilling from her lips like vomit after a night of drunken revelry.

"We can talk about it when you get here," he croaked. The words affair and pregnant chased themselves around his head like cats and dogs; like he and Elizaveta.

"You're not mad?" she asked, tears in her voice.

"I could never be mad at you," he whispered, his first taste of crushing defeat bitter to his tongue.

"But the child, it was right after you, so I'm not sure if-"

"Elizaveta Héderváry," and now it was his turn to hide the vibrato of his voice, "I don't care if that child comes out albino or playing Strauss, you're _my_ girl; It's _my_ baby."

"You're my baby-daddy, Gil," she said, and her smile warmed her voice. He wasn't mad. Well, of course he was mad, but by some miracle he wasn't mad at _her_.

"When's it due? What's its name?" he paused, "what _is_ it?"

"Daniel is a boy, he's due in November," she laughed, touching her swollen belly, feeling the child kick at her, "he's kicking! He must be your son."

"Of course he is, awesome little rug – wait, _November_? That's two months away!" Gil gulped, feeling a twinge of betrayal that would surely grow over the next few days.

"You haven't been home in seven months, Gil. It was the week after you left. I was sad and I'd had too much ice-cream."

"Ok, ok! Don't tell me now. Tell me in person!" he almost yelled. He didn't want to hear anything like that over the phone.

"I get off at 2 on Friday, and there's a train that will leave at two-fifty. If I go to Rome that will take me about eighteen hours? Yes, eighteen. You will be in Rome, won't you?"

"I can pull some strings and be there by Monday. _Ich liebe dich_," he tacked on to the end.

"_Szeretlek,_" she returned the sentiment before hanging up.

Half sobbing in relief, Elizaveta sat down and cradled her belly, cooing softly to it in _Magyarok_.

"_Such a pretty baby_," she smiled, rubbing the kicking feet and pushing hands, "_so like your Papa. Your Papa loves you, your Mama loves you, pretty, pretty baby_."

~====o)0(o====~

Gilbert stared at the air in front of him. He stared so long, and so hard that it began to shimmer like a heat wave; changing colours and distorting shapes.

"_Ich bin ein Papa_," he said tentatively, the words heavy and foreign on his tongue, and then again, "_Ich bin ein Papa_," it sounded better that time, "_ICH BIN EIN PAPA_!" he yelled, frightening a flock of birds outside, and judging by the startled shriek from the next room, Lovino too.

"Don't go screaming in your stupid macho sausage-eating voice!" the Italian yelled, storming out of the sitting room where he had been about to call Antonia to confront his bodyguard, who had been nice enough to give him some privacy. Apparently his brother was less lenient to Feli, if the younger Italians stories of a "four-metre limit" were true, the German refused to be further than four metres from his charge at any given time, and Feli had on more than one occasion woken up to Ludwig watching him.

Gilbert heard Lovino coming and charged out of the room he was in, sweeping the smaller man into his arms and a spine-cracking hug,

"I'm going to be a dad, Lovino! A dad! I'm going to have a son!" he bellowed, dancing about.

"Congratulazioni, but put me down! Chigi~!"

~====o)0(o====~

Ludwig flicked agitatedly through an issue of _Guns and Amo_, trying to block out the sounds that were carrying with disgusting ease through the wooden door besides me. Fluent Japanese, much punctuated by streams of Italian and more grunting and moaning than the German would _ever_ want to hear again in his entire life blared in stereo from the bedroom.

The grandfather clock a little further just down the thickly carpeted hallway chimed the hour, and little groan of frustration left his thin lips to mingle with those already crowding the heated air. He was losing more sleep making sure his boss – who had the libido of a bunny-rabbit on Viagra – wasn't killed in his sleep than he had doing anything else, ever.

The tick-tock of the clock paused to chime the hour; two in the morning. Where they ever going to sleep?

"_Ah! Feli-kun!"_

"_Sakura!"_

"_Ah! ~ Faster!"_

Apparently not.

~====o)0(o====~

"Morning, Beast!" Feliciano chirped with, in Ludwig's opinion, repellent cheer. Of course, it was ten in the morning, and the bodyguard had been up since six.

"Good morning, Herr Vargas," he said, trying his damnedest not to sound like he was reprimanding a small child.

"_Ohayo gozaimashita_," the girl besides him looked like she was recovering from a severe hangover. Her raven hair, which had been smooth and glossy yesterday, was now dull and unkempt. Her makeup was smudged and bore strong evidence of being slept in. Her clothes were rumpled from where they had spent the night on the floor, and the girl herself was walking with a slight limp.

"Good morning, Vrau," Ludwig inclined his head politely. The poor girl was obviously upset about something, and she nodded distractedly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. The German noted that there was a diamond set into her leftmost incisor.

She turned to the Italian with an impassive face, "I have to leave now, Vargas-san," her voice as emotionless as her face, "my plane home leaves in two hours. I expect you shall hear from me at some point."

"Ve~ Sakura, you don't even have my email!" Feliciano smiled a little confusedly, tilting his head to the side.

"I hardly see how that matters. _Sayonara_."

And she was gone. The Italian looked up at his bodyguard, his face a study in bewilderment;

"She's a strange one, but a good lay," he stated matter-of-factly before pottering off to have breakfast.

~====o)0(o====~

"Case Officer 682K?" a surprisingly clear voice barked from the secure-connection speakers. Case Officer 682K, who had just exited the shower and had a towel wrapped around his waist, turned in surprise, only to trip over the rug of his hotel room; trying his damnedest not to curse as the towel fell away, leaving him open to carpet-burn in a particularly unpleasant location.

"Case Officer 682K, do you read?" the voice snapped again, and the blond man pulled himself up so that he was facing the laptop on the coffee table.

"This is Case Officer 682K, reading. Alpha, Sera, Delta, Foxtrot," the man rattled off, thanking God that there was no webcam, and repositioning his towel.

"Hey, we were a little worried about you, Kirkland!" the voice on the other end lapsed into a cheerful Cockney accent.

"I was in the shower, Withersham," Arthur Kirkland said tartly, his formidable eyebrows furrowing.

"Right, now we're in a bit of a bananarama at GCHQ, and it involves you," Withersham said, ignoring the other man's acerbic tone of voice.

"Pardon?"

"Barney. We've got Barney Rubble."

"John, stop playing silly buggers, this is a secure line; no one can hack it!" there was a weary sigh from the laptop and Withersham began again,

"We have a situation. C has been corresponding with the FBI, and they want in on the stake-out. They think that '_our boys'_ could be running one of their drug cartels through Mexico, and they want the scoop. Apparently our reports aren't good enough for them. Their man should be there within a day or two. There's nothing we can do about it, though I did try to tell them that you'd as soon eat your own eyebrows than work with an American," the laptop explained, using the in-office nickname for Sir John Sawers, head of the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6. Arthur groaned. That was the last thing he needed; some gun slinging Yankee to turn nine months of covert operations tits up!

"Can I get a name before this mystery cowboy pitches up at my door?" he asked wearily.

"Jones, you're to say 'lovely weather isn't it?' his response is, 'you're not from around here, are you?' I have to go liaison with the man himself now, so ta-ta, Kirky!"

"It's _Kirkland!_" Arthur yelled, smacking his open palm onto the coffee table.

~====o)0(o====~

It was hard for Ludwig to believe that he had been working for Feliciano for almost a month now. He still wasn't getting much sleep, but when there was that much noise going on in the room next door (the bodyguard was unlikely to forget the time he had confused the sound of Feli and that night's lay with an assassination attempt; the image that greeted the surprised German of the even more surprised Italian and his lover burned into his brain and no amount of mental bleach could remove it).

The man himself was having his late afternoon coffee at a café that overlooked the floating city beautifully. Gil and Lovino had gone back to Rome the previous morning.

"Ve~Beast?" there was trepidation in Feliciano's voice, and Ludwig braced himself for bad news. The Italian had been sweating bullets all day. In the three weeks he had been serving under him, Lutz had barely seen the boy bat an eyelid at some of the most horrific sights and situations the German had ever encountered, though he was oddly scared of the things that posed the least danger. It was worrying.

"Ja, Herr Vargas?"

"You know that girl I was with the other day?" It was an unfortunate question, but it needed to be asked;

"Which _one_, Herr Vargas?"

"The Japanese one; Sakura Honda," Feli sighed dreamily, if nervously.

"Ja, Her. What about her?"

"I took her virginity." Ludwig stared at Feliciano, nonplussed.

"I'm sure that happens with alarming regularity, Herr, but it's hardly my business."

"Ve~ But now she, her brother, her boyfriend and her boyfriend's best friend are all out to get me!"

Ludwig was almost insulted that Feli thought he couldn't handle a few thugs with a grudge.

"I don't see a problem there, Herr Vargas."

"My people tell me that they are Sakura and Kiku Honda; head of the _Yakuza_," _that would explain those tattoos_, "Wang Yao is her boyfriend, and he is a very senior member of the Chinese Triads."

"And the boyfriend's friend?" the bodyguard was almost afraid to ask.

"Ivan Braginsky. He runs the Moscow branch of the _Bratva_," Feli said miserably, "It takes three hours to get from Moscow to Venice! He could be here already, he probably is!"

"We are fucked," Ludwig said before he could stop himself. This was the most unlikely situation he had ever come across in his life! If he were to write a book about this, no one would buy it, on account of its lack of realism!

"Ve~! You're not helping Beast!" the Italian whined, though his face was deadly serious.

"Do not worry, Herr. It is my job to protect you," Ludwig said, the vehemence in his voice coloured blood red by the setting sun.

**Oh gosh, guys! I'm sick as a dog (can't breathe, can't swallow, can't think). Anyway. Thank you for reading, I have so many ideas for the next chapter, I can't wait to start writing it. I hope this wasn't too bad, and that you don't mind the new characters ^_^. There will be a lot of them!**

**Thank you to Prussia, Germany and China, for letting me bounce ideas off them (though China isn't reading this) and to Poland (you're utterly fabulous!) who is reading this even though he didn't think he'd like it!**

**Kiko33 (glad you liked it), Oreocooky (So much love for that comment!), Raikimluva22 (Thank you so much ^_^), ShortSweet'NToThePoint (Constrictive criticism is welcomed!), LilyGeek-x3 (you make me laugh with joy) NewEclipse (It does take a chair to do it, but it can be done!)**

**One last shout out to MI6 and the FBI for having such informative and user-friendly websites ^_^**

**Oh! And before I go (yikes, long note is long) if you see a mistake – this ain't beta'd – please leave a comment. Say, "You see this, bitch? This is an **_**error**_**! Fix this shit!" Please, I do take note of it, and I am going to re-upload corrected versions at some point. **

**Reviews are much appreciated, and will cure my flu. **

**Seriously. **


	6. The Russian In The Hallway With The Pipe

**Ummmm. Ignore the bit about the salmon. Please.  
>I'm still sick and massively sleep-deprived (It takes me a couple of hours at least to drop off most nights and reading fanfiction until I drop off doesn't help) so I'm not making much sense at all. Again I apologise for any errors in my English. It is my first language, and my favourite, but I'm just so happy to have written a new chapter that I want you guys to read it straight away and I forget to edit. It doesn't help that every single chapter of this so far has been posted after 10pm my time. <strong>

**This has a butt-load of assorted pairings, and doesn't focus so much on Gerita, but damn it, the story can't function without these other characters!**

**JustAmel, I hope you don't mind that I quoted you. **

Gilbert served wildly around a corner before careening down the main road at high speed. Displaying a skill with non-verbal profanities that would have any deaf person covering their eyes, the German man hightailed it down a side-street towards the train-station, where he was almost late to pick up Elizaveta. He wanted to surprise her by picking her up; it had taken quite a few favours for Lovi to let him get off work long enough to fetch her. Fortunately, he still had plenty to spare.

"_Arschloch_!" he howled, sticking as much of his upper-body out of the driver's side window as was possible without losing control of the vehicle, screaming past a traumatised-looking family of four, "I'm driving here!"

Smoking his tires as he swung around another corner, the chassis of his heavy BMW almost colliding with some dinky little scrap-on-wheels, the German stepped on the gas. His engine roaring like a caged beast, Gilbert left black streaks on the road as he sped towards the train station, which was now within his sights. There! There she was! Her waist-length brown hair was fluttering in the wind. That same wind was pressing her loosing clothing against her very pregnant belly. It was a bitter pill to see her like this, but he swallowed it without complaint. It was his fault after all; getting mixed up in all this mafia business; leaving her alone for seven months.

However, that did not mean that he wasn't going to do some very unusual and painful things to a certain Austrian composer; things that involved an icing-tube, a kitchen whisk and a ladle; though the whisk could be substituted for piano wire if he was feeling particularly inventive.

Slipping through the other cars on the main road in the same way a particularly well-greased salmon slips through a tumble-dryer. The Prussian blue car almost flipped as its body collided with the high curb not two feet from Elizaveta. Gilbert jumped out and flung open the passenger side door for her,

"Your chariot awaits, _Herrin_," with a lecherous smile Elizaveta scolded him,

"I thought I told you not to call me that in public, _az én kis kurva_?"She asked, using a pet name from one of their darker sex games. _My little whore_. Gil tried his damnedest not to answer with 'no, that's you,' and only just succeeded by stabbing a canine through the inside of his cheek.

The whole purpose of this exercise was to get her to stay, not chase her off.

~====o)0(o====~

"Gilbert_, sweetheart_," Elizaveta said, enough false cheer in her voice to supply Beacon sweets for eons to come, "neither I, nor the baby is going to die if you drive at more than three kilometres an hour!"

"Four," the German corrected, inching the car along, ignoring the outraged insults being hurled at him by his fellow drivers, "four kilometres an hour."

There was an almighty bang as a cast-iron frying-pan was brought down on the crown of his head with as much force as she could manage in such close quarters.

"Go faster!"

"Christ, Lizavet! I'm driving here!" Gil yelled, massaging his scalp while simultaneously checking for blood. He found none, "how the fuck did you get that thing through customs, anyway?"

"People will let you get away with _murder_ when you're pregnant," she grinned, "now stop swearing in front of Danny; I don't want him growing up with your foul mouth. And for fuck's sake, hurry the fuck up before I have to murder you! I need a piss like you wouldn't fucking believe!"

Wisely choosing to ignore the hypocrisy inherent in that statement, Gilbert gently eased the car up to second gear.

_Maybe I should get a Volvo? _

~====o)0(o====~

"_Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine: Domine, quis sustinebit? Quia apud te propitiatio est:  
>et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Domine<em>." Feliciano muttered fervently, his eyes screwed shut and his lips trembling as he bent over his clasped hands. The knuckles of his fingers where white-skinned.

"We would be better served heading to a secure location," Ludwig said mildly, though he was anxious to get as far away from Venice as possible.

"_Sustinuit anima mea in verbo eius: speravit anima mea in Domino. A custodia matutina usque ad noctem: speret Israel in Domino_. Shut up, Beast!" he whispered, and resumed his supplications. Frustrated, the blonde rose from his seat and crab-stepped to the end of the pew.

"Ve~! Beast, where are you going?"

"To obtain a safe house and a new identity for you, Herr Vargas," he answered, patience wearing thin.

"Don't leave! What if those crazy mobsters pitch up while you're gone? Your job is to protect me!" the Italian wailed, snatching at Ludwig's sleeve in his panic.

"It would be safer of you to come with me to Rome. Gilbert and I together can better protect you."

"But this is a house of God! We have sanctuary!" Feliciano looked up at him confusedly, and it struck the German that Feli had lived a strangely sheltered life, under the vast shadow of his grandfather's empire. He was feared for his name, not for his personality, because behind all the vicious flirtation and heartless bravado he was a scared little boy who never grew up.

"These are Godless people, Herr Vargas," Lutz said, a little sadly. He neglected to mention that he had forsaken any faith he had the day Monika died. Feliciano looked up at the blond man with fear in his eyes, and Ludwig felt his treacherous heart swell. He had been on dates at Gilbert's insistence, but this was different. This was genuine concern for the incompetent mobster before him, and damn it if he didn't hate himself for it.

"Ve~ Ludwig," the soft accent lilting over his name was pleading, "what am I going to do?"

"Come with me, Herr Vargas, I'll protect you."

~====o)0(o====~

It was a mellow day in Rome. The air was heavy with golden sunshine and people milled happily in the streets, chatting and laughing. Arthur Kirkland however was doing neither of these things. Arthur Kirkland was searching for a tall, blond man in a brown jacket eating an ice-cream.

This would have been a simple enough task had they not been meeting at the Trevi fountain in the middle of the day. The sun was bright and crowds thronged joyously to the clear, sparkling waters that splashed merrily from the baroque font.

There. A herd of people wandered aimlessly by, revealing in their wake a tall, dirty-blond man licking idly at his gelato as he scanned the crowd. He was wearing a worn leather aviator's jacket, a pair of faded jeans and tan leather cowboy boots. A pair of wire-framed glasses sat on the end of his perfectly straight nose. With a sigh Arthur walked up to him, opened his mouth, sighed again and then said,

"Lovely weather, isn't it?" he asked, his tone indicating that he felt the exact opposite. The man turned to face him, an award winning smile that flashed movie-star white teeth stretching his face. The Englishman was momentarily stunned by the man's eyes; they were the flawless blue of an Old-West sky, and for seconds that seemed like hours Arthur was lost in them. And thus spake the FBI operative;

"_Y'ain't frum around here, are yew?" _

A Texan. He had been assigned to work with a Texan. He _hated_ Texans. It was that stupid accent; it drove him absolutely crackers; and this particular accent was unprecedentedly thick. Now he had to work, nay, _live_, with one for an as of yet undisclosed period of time. How had this happened? How had he not pegged the boy for one of _them_ the instant he laid eyes on the All-American-Boy good looks?

Though the biggest clue should have been the "_I heart Texas_" t-shirt that was stretched taught across his broad chest. This was going to be a long operation.

Now that he thought on it, how had he even found that subtly-boyish face attractive at all? Who gave a hootenanny if the man was some kind of six-two, gold-skinned demi-god? That wretched drawl was going to have Arthur homicidal in two hours flat.

"Alfred F Jones," the young man said, his smile never wavering, "Pleased t'meetcha."

"Arthur Kirkland," Arthur replied curtly, offering his hand. The Englishman made a rather undignified squeak as instead of shaking his hand like a normal human being, Alfred jerked him forwards into a one-armed bear-hug.

"Y'know what, Artie? I think we're gonna get on just swell," the American smiled broadly, steering his captive off to get more ice-cream, "I always did like the Brits."

Arthur went red, and the loud protestations of his name, this gratuitous physical contact and the man's blatant flagellation of the English language died on his lips. This, the Englishman thought, not for the first time in five minutes, was going to be a very, _very_ long assignment.

~====o)0(o====~

Safely ensconced in her room under the pretext of being tired, which wasn't wholly untrue, Elizaveta fished a much-abused cell phone out of her handbag and rifled through her contacts until she found one that she had only dialled twice. With her nerves live with electricity, she pressed call.

"Hallo," he asked, and she almost dropped the phone in fright; she hadn't even expected him to pick up.

"Hello, Roderich," she muttered, practically shivering with nervous tension, "It's Elizaveta."

"Oh, hello," no, he didn't remember her, that much was evident in his tone, "How are you?"

"Pregnant," the word hung like a corpse from the gallows.

"Come again?" Roderich spluttered; his composure breaking.

"Oh, no you don't!" Elizaveta was angry now, "that's what got us into this mess in the first place!"

"What do you mean, '_us_'? There is no '_us_' in this equation, only _you_. It's _your_ baby, it's _your_ problem!" and with a finite click the reeling _pirr pirr_ of the dial tone began to play in her ear. With a vicious joy, the Hungarian woman set down her phone. That was all she needed to know. How could she possibly have forsaken Gil, when he had unquestioningly accepted her- no, _their_ child and Roderich had spat in her face?

"Daniel Beilschmidt," he murmured, caressing her belly. The growing infant kicked at her hand, "you like that, don't you?" Another kick. Elizaveta just smiled.

~====o)0(o====~

"What the hell are you two doing in Rome!" Lovino yelled, his face tomato red. Antonia slipped her arms soothingly around his waist and whispered calming Spanish in his ear until he calmed down somewhat before she gestured for Feli to continue.

"Ve~ Lovi. It's best explained inside," the younger Italian muttered, determinedly studying his well-polished shoes.

"We have what you might call 'a situation'," Ludwig added helpfully, and Gilbert raised an eyebrow, and tugged gently on Lovi's sleeve, indicating that they should take this conversation off the doorstep.

"I'll go fetch Elizaveta," Antonia cooed happily; she was utterly enchanted to have a new friend in this rug-tug mafia world (Lovino was slightly worried at how calmly his intended had received the truth of his employment, but it was better this way, si?) "Does she know what you do, Gi?"

"Not in so many words," Gilbert said mildly, "telling someone as prone to random acts of psychosis as Lizavet that you work for The Family is never easy."

"_You work for the mafia_?" came the shriek from the landing, and all five of them looked up to see an irate pregnant woman wielding a frying pan in the same way Vikings did broad-swords.

"Well, shit," the albino said, raising his hands and walking forwards slowly, "Lizavet, calm down, I was about to tell you that-"

"And what would happen if you were to die and leave our baby without a father? Huh? What then, Gilbert-I'm-So-Awesome-I'll-Never-Get-Sick-Or-Die?"

"Signora," Lovino stepped in, being surprisingly charming, "I assure you that should you husband be injured or killed under my employ, I would provide a most generous benefit for you and your _bambino. _We are a family, _si_? We do not leave our own wanting."

Miracle of miracles, the Hungarian calmed down and allowed a relieved Italian to lead her down the stairs and to Gilbert, who took her hands,

"I've missed you," he muttered, giving her a quick peck on the lips. Much to his shock, she threw her arms around him and began sobbing hysterically about how dreadfully she had missed him, and how he was never to leave her again, or she would have to beat him to death with a pair of maternity pants. Gilbert looked desperately to his brother,

"_Help me!"_ he mouthed. Ludwig shook his head, an almost smile quivering about his mouth. Gilbert should hold on to Elizaveta while he could.

"_Mi scusi_, signora," Feli said, "I have some very important business to discuss with my _fratellone_ and your husband. Would you care to join us?"

"I would indeed, thank you very much," she smiled and took Feli's offered hand. Gilbert stood; his hand half raised as if to protest, his mouth opening and closing like a land-bound fish.

"Right," he said to himself as the rest of the party filtered into the drawing room, "let's just leave the awesome guy behind shall we. Yes, let's take the whiny bitch, the stepford-smiler, the workaholic, the airhead and the crazy pregnant lady, but you know what, let's leave the one person in this collection of lunatics who has any degree of awesome-saucity and leave him in the foyer!"

"Gilbert, sweetie, stop talking to yourself. You know it only makes people think you're insane!" Elizaveta called from Feliciano's arm as the five of them gathered around the coffee table and waited for the albino to join them. With a begrudging sigh and much unhappy grumbling to the tune of I-Am-The-Only-Sane-Man-On-This-Earth, Gilbert rejoined his chaotic friends and employers.

~====o)0(o====~

"You see, Feliciano? That´s what you get when your dick guides you!" Antonia scolded, "What am I always telling you? Find a nice man and stick by him!"

"Ve~! Ant'ia!" the little Italian whined, "This is not the time to be discussing my not-entirely-latent homosexuality!"

"You're right, _chico_, I'll go get some coffee, _si_?" she smiled, "And tea for you Lizzy, your little Daniel doesn't need that much caffeine!" the door clicked shut behind her.

"Thank you, Antonia, that's very kind of you," Elizaveta smiled, and returned to watching the men argue. Feli was in turn cowering and defending his actions (rather poorly). What a waste of perfectly decent oxygen.

A soft knocking at the door had Feli jumping out of his chair to help his friend and to get away from the horrendously thorough tongue-lashing he was currently receiving. Joyously flinging the door open, Feliciano froze.

Where he had expected to find a reasonably sized Spanish woman with a skirt-suit and a lot of coffee, he found an unreasonably tall man with pale hair, unsettlingly violet eyes, a trench coat, scarf and an ominously stained lead pipe capped with a tap.

The man smiled the kind of smile a small child makes as he rips the wings off a fly and watches it crawl unsteadily about the windowsill until it dies.

"You are, Feliciano, da?" his voice was thickly accented.

With an ear-splitting shriek so high that would have been funny under any other circumstances, the little Italian mobster slammed the door shut with twice as much vigour as it had been opened with.

"BEEAAST!" he screamed, "RUSSIAN!"

Elizaveta started ranting, Lovino started arguing, Gilbert tried and failed to reason with both of them, Feliciano was in utter hysterics and Ludwig took a deep breath. Drawing on every drill-sergeant he had ever met, his almost obsessive need for control and that natural German militarism, he opened his mouth and yelled;

"EVERYBODY SHUT UP!" Quite fell. Elizavet and Lovi stopped trying to hit Gilbert, and Feli's sobs quieted to sniffles, "Herr Vargas, Herr Vargas, both of you get back against that wall. Now! Elizaveta, join them. Gilbert, help me move this in front of the door."

Everyone remained frozen in time for a moment before jumping into action, scurrying to their designated posts. Hefting the dresser Ludwig had pointed out in front of the heavy oak door, which was now shuddering from blow after blow from what could only be the Russian's pipe.

"Antonia is out there. The stupid cow!" Lovino hissed, but without any of his usual venom, worry lines etched themselves around his mouth and eyes.

"Ve~ Gilbert, can't you talk to him? You speak Russian, right?" Feli asked tentatively.

"_Gottverdammt! Ich bin kein Russe_!" Gilbert howled from where he pushed against the dresser to keen the invader at bay, "Prussian! _Prussian_! P! P! There's a _P_, damn it!" Ludwig looked at his brother in surprise,

"You've been telling people you're from Prussia? What bullshit, Gil! Prussia hasn't even been a country for 64 years! You were born in Dusseldorf, just like me!"

"I get more tail that way," Gilbert shrugged, leaning his full weight against the chest of drawers. The pounding on the door was accompanied by eerie, childlike giggles now.

"You've been dating the same woman for almost five years now."

"And how do you think she got pregnant?" the albino said with a smug smile.

"I _thought_," Ludwig ground out, pushing against the cupboard that was moving millimetre by millimetre into the room, "that she had an affair with some Austrian poof that I used to work for."

"He's not gay!" Elizaveta broke in, distressed. Gilbert sulked. Taking a few seconds to look back at her and his cowering tight-faced charges, Ludwig tossed Elizaveta a grim smile,

"That man is Liege of the Fairy Kings, Lizavet. I'm sorry to have to tell you that."

The cupboard gained an inch, and then two.

"Lutz, we're not going to hold this!" Gilbert muttered, wondering how many people were on the other side of the door, which just as suddenly as it had begun to move swung shut again. There were raised voices outside, more of that spine chilling laughter and then a high-pitched scream. Lovino blanched, that wasn't Antonia screaming was it?

As four of the room's five occupants raised their guns, the blonde kicked the door open. There was a streak of blood on the wall, and a tray off coffee neatly set down on the carpet; safely out of the line of fire. However the thing that had them all utterly stunned was the woman with thickly curled brunette hair and apple-green eyes, tutting at the blood that speckled her pinstriped white suit.

"_Cara_?" Lovino asked cautiously, "where did you get that axe?"

There was indeed a long pole topped with spike and a curved, double-sided blade on one end propped casually over her shoulder.

"This?" she asked, twirling the grip in her hands, "It's a halberd. It was on your wall. You know conquistadors used them?"

"Chigi," the elder Italian breathed, while Feli tried in vain to rub a headache from his temples.

"The Russian ran off, but I got him in the shoulder pretty good. You want me to have him killed, _si?_" she continued as though she was not dusted in a mist of gore.

"Chigi." This prompted Antonia to look at her boyfriend clearly; he looked shocked, which she hadn't suspected,

"Lovi, _mi tomatito_? You didn't run a background check on me, did you?"

"Why the fuck would I, woman? You're my girlfriend, not a- a- a-" he searched for an example, "a drug lord!"

The Spanish woman looked guiltily at the floor, "_Si_."

"_Si_? _**Si**_**!** What do you _mean_, '_si_'?"

"I run cartels through Mexico and Canada into America, I though you knew!"

"_I thought you were a landscape designer_!"

Gilbert took Elizaveta and Ludwig suggested that Feliciano get some sugar-water to help his nerves, leaving the irate Italian and the easy-going Spaniard to verbally hash out their problems. It wouldn't get beyond that, after all, Antonia was still idly twirling her halberd.

**I have an inexplicable bruise on the top of my foot. It hurts. Thus is my life.**

**I officially (as of the 12****th**** of August 2011) have only 40 days left of my high school career, and I am freaking the fuck out. You know the drill; indecisive, no idea what I want to do with my life ect ect ect. **

**I'm going to be badly cosplaying North Italy, though, which I'm quite excited for. I have South Italy, Prussia and Germany joining me. ^_^**

**I apologise for the fic **_**Broken**_**, which is on Woodbyne's account. It is what really happened to Lutz's family and it's very graphic, according to Woodbyne (who is Prussia) several people died while reading it which is why nobody reviewed. I was told this repeatedly in the fifteen minute phone-call that she spent screaming at me for even thinking that shot, let alone writing it down and posting it. **

**Wish me luck, and PLEASE, OH, PLEASE, review? Your magical powers of reviewing cured my flu (I could do with some more, this damn cough just won't go away) and I'm sure they can make me less scared for my final year. I really want to know what you think of my story. **

**Much love to awl a'y'all (sorry about Alfred's accent _ It just had to be done! ;D)**


	7. Trepidation and Retail Therapy!

**This chapter is dedicated to KajiMori. **

**She has followed me from fanfiction, to deviantART, and even added me to her watch, and so much more! ^_^  
>Such love. It doesn't even compute. ^_^<strong>

**EDIT: Thank you VERY much to JustAmel for correcting my Spanish (which is non-existent). Much love to you! And to BTW for pointing out that the fuck-damn server deleted a word. **

**Anywho, we have ****a few questions that need answering****. One: Yes, Antonia is Antonio who is Spain. Yes, she is awesome and no, she was never a man.  
>Two: Why is Alfred Texan? <strong>_**Is**_** Alfred even Texan? Yes. Honestly, I love the accent. Arthur does, too. He just doesn't know it yet. I think it's beautiful and I just had to include it in my story. Also, his glasses are representative of Texas and spectacles are such a large part of someone's persona and physical appearance that it becomes an identity. Trust me, I wear glasses. The damn things grow onto your face. Mine, however, keep falling off. **

**Speaking of, the song Alfred sings is called **_American Blood_** by **_Reckless Kelly_**. It's a lot more Country and Western than it sounds. **

**It's a miracle! You guys cured me! (shutupI'mnotcoughingIswear!Hackhackgacktdie)  
>Enjoy!<strong>

Panting heavily, Ivan Braginsky leant against the cool wall of a dark alley in Rome. A trembling man with shoulder length brunette hair tried desperately to steady his hand as he pulled the needle and thread through the thick muscle and skin of the Russian's shoulder. He tied the knot off and dabbed a little more alcohol over the site to clean it. The brunette man raised his cerulean blue eyes to the strangely violet eyes of his superior,

"I'm done, sir," he said quietly.

"Good, good," Ivan pushed himself off the wall without even flinching, despite that the axe had bitten as deeply as it could into his shoulder without hitting the bone.

"Toris," the large Russian's thin lips split in a smile icicle-sharp and famine-hungry, "will you do something for me?" Toris nodded, the damp cool of the alleyway not helping his shivers.

"_Vyzovite moih sestry_," Ivan whispered, the smile faded to a nostalgic remembrance of muscle movements.

_Call my sisters. _

"Yessir," the brunette nodded again. Closing his eyes, he leant his cheek into the large palm. It was rough and dry. The pad of a thumb brushed over his quivering lips. He would call them.

~====o)0(o====~

Arthur was half asleep when the smell of frying bacon pervaded his senses. It was thick, salty and the way it cloyed at the back of his throat made his mouth water. Hazily the Englishman discerned the tantalizing sound of the searing meat; the hiss, pop and sizzle that made it sound like some sort of tempting, perverse breakfast cereal. But above the delightful sound his ears had sleepily zeroed in on, there was a low, rumbling voice singing a mellow ballad. The voice had a Texan twang;

"_Johnny can't drink 'cause Johnny ain't twenty-one; Yeah but he's eighteen and he's pretty handy with a gun; They sent him off to a foreign land; Gave him a new pair of boots and thirteen grand; And he came back home with American blood on his hands._"

Despite how much it irked him to admit it, Arthur quite liked the way that deep melody raised him to the land of the living. It had been so long since he'd been involved with anyone that he had forgotten what it was like to wake up to someone wandering around the house. Well, perhaps not entirely. There had been one instance of someone wandering around Arthurs house while he was asleep, but seeing as the man was also trying to appropriate his television, the Englishman saw fit to incapacitate him rather than engage in conversation. Slipping out of bed and into sensible clothes, the Brit padded into the kitchen to find Alfred F Jones clad in an apron, tipping heaps of crisp bacon from a pan onto two plates,

"Mornin' Artie!" he grinned, pushing his glasses farther up his nose with the back of a hand, "How'dya like y'reggs?"

Aaaaaand we are back to being annoying. . .

"Scrambled," Arthur sighed; it didn't pay to antagonise one's partner, so even though the only thing he wanted more than to scream at this man that his name was in fact Ar_thur_, was a good cup of tea, he took a deep breath, smiled and added, "Please?"

"Sure thing!" Alfred grinned, cracking six eggs into a pan and whistling to the same tune as he was singing when the Brit woke.

"So," Arthur picked up a plate, spearing the still-crackling meat with a fork, "is that ditty of yours autobiographical?" the American reddened slightly under his honey-gold tan,

"You heard that, huh? Naw, Thas just a song a friend of mine sang after a stint overseas. Said he felt like it was written for him; like it was sung to his life. Since I was there with him, I can agree."

The Englishman nodded. He had known friends and songs like that. Alfred served the eggs and they ate in silence. Or rather, Arthur ate in silence while his American counterpart spoke so much that he wondered where Alfred was finding time to clear his plate – which he was doing at an accelerated rate; what with all the sound that was coming out, surely nothing could be going in.

Still maintaining perfect silence, he picked up his plate and washed it before trudging off to man the fort, tripping over that _damn_ carpet in the process; the Vargas' brothers could make a call at any time. As he was about to set his earphones in place, Arthur heard above the clink of cutlery that meant Alfred was washing up, that soft burr of song;

"_Now Johnny can drink all day 'cause he's twenty-three; He donated his legs to the world-wide land of the free; He cried 'God Bless America, but Goddamn Uncle Sam; As he stares through the tears with American blood on his hands._"

Shuddering, the Briton snapped the headphones into place.

~====o)0(o====~

"_Por favor, mi amor! Mi Tomatito! Estoy tan aburrida_!"Antonia wailed, her head resting in Lovino's lap as he stroked her hair. He sighed, twisting curls about his fingers before smoothing them back into place,

"I know you're bored, Antonia, I am too. But we have to stay safe, _cara._ It would not do for either of us to be hurt, would it?"

"_No~oo_," she drew the single out into three and pouted, "but I'm still bored. Very bored." She paused and reached up to tug on a stray lock of Lovino's hair, "Lovi, _mi amor_, you'll _entertain_ me, won't you?" she asked, a wicked smirk belaying her honest features.

There was a polite cough from Gilbert, and the elder Italian blushed as red as the beloved tomatoes that his fiancé so often compared him to; he had forgotten that there were five other people in the room.

"We still haven't thrown you two and engagement party," Feliciano mused from where he was lounging against the rigid Ludwig's strong arm, much to the blonde's dismay, "now I don't think we'll-"

"A party!" the Spaniard shrieked delightedly, sitting bolt upright and almost head-butting her future bridegroom in the face, "Lovi! _Corazón_! We can throw a party! Oh, please? It'll be such fun!"

"That wouldn't be very safe," the two German's in the room began simultaneously before looking at each other with varying degrees of shock.

"It'll be safe as houses, _mijo_," Antonia laughed happily, cuddling up to Lovi while he tried unsuccessfully to wriggle away.

"Seventy percent of all accidents happen in the home," Gilbert recited ominously, holding Elizaveta close.

"Eh," the Spaniard waved a dismissive hand, "I said houses, not home! And you!" she pointed a suddenly threatening claw at Ludwig, "If you wear a suit to my engagement party _Te voy a destripar como a un cerdo!_"

"Antonia! There will be no gutting! Like pigs or otherwise!" Lovino howled, thoroughly embarrassed by her behaviour. That was, of course, until he realised that no-one but Feliciano had understood before he had blurted out a translation. Gilbert and Elizaveta glanced wearily at the curly-haired woman who was now lounging across her fiancé. As if sensing their gaze she flicked her apple-green eyes in their direction, where they settled on Elizaveta.

"Eliza, _querida_, will you take him shopping for me? I don't trust him on his own."

"Sure, Antia, can I ask where?"

"Oh, anywhere expensive. He has two month's salary to burn."

"Fraus, Herrs, I would have a word with my brother. In private. Please watch them, Antonia?" Ludwig said, rising from his seat. He was uncomfortable being discussed like garden furniture.

"Of course," Antonia smiled pleasantly, as though she hadn't threatened to disembowel him only a few minutes previously.

Almost dragging Gilbert out of the room by the back of his shirt, Ludwig closed the door behind them. The second the lock clicked shut, Elizaveta threw her glass of water into a vase of roses and set the glass to the door and put her ear to it.

"Ve~! Eliza! What are you doing?" Feliciano hissed, leaning forwards in his seat.

"Well I doubt any of you are fluent in German, so shut up!" she hissed back, "Ha! I can hear them!" She began imitating Ludwig's bass voice with unnerving accuracy, speaking normally when her boyfriend spoke;

"_I can't take this anymore!_ _That incompetent mobster is driving me insane!"_

"_Calm down, Lutz! It can't be that bad, can it? I can manage Lovino just fine by myself!"_

"_Does Lovino refuse to hire anyone else? Does Lovino stay up until all hours having sex, regardless of anyone else? Lie the man hired to sit outside his door? I don't get paid enough to listen to that Gil! Whatever they're paying me, it is not enough for me to have to deal with that!"_ Elizaveta glave Feliciano what would have been a dark look had she not been waggling her eyebrows quite so nefariously.

"_Do you even know how much he's paying you? Because it's a pretty penny, I can tell you!"_

"_I don't want to be here, brother! I'm sick of speaking English. This is the first German I've spoken in weeks. I'm constantly being introduced to strange people as 'Beast' and the half of the time that I don't want to shoot Feliciano Vargas, I'm - Fuck this shit, Gilbert. I want out of this!"_

"_No way, Italy is good for you. You've spoken more here than you have anywhere else in the world!"_

"_Really? Because I recall that I had a lot to say in Jakarta."_

"_You were blind-ass, fucking drunk, man. That doesn't count."_

"_I still want to get out of this damn country."_

"_Lutz, the only way out would be to get fired. You know. From life? I think I mentioned that before. There will be your Lutz-matter all over the fucking wall, and not even me and my awesome MD skillz can save you."_

"_Has it ever occurred to you, Gilbert, that maybe I _want_ to die?" _Elizaveta paused to gasp aloud with the rest of her co-eavesdroppers.

"_Yeah, it's occurred to me. And don't you fucking dare. You are my only family, Lutz. Don't you fucking _dare_ leave me alone!"_

"_You have your own family now; you don't need sad Uncle Ludwig casting a cloud over Daniel's life. Let's go back to the others."_

"_This conversation is so fucking far from over that it hasn't even started, bro. Count on that."_

"Shit!" the Hungarian groaned through clenched teeth as the doorknob next to her jiggled. Still cursing she scrambled backwards like a bolt of greased lightning (or the fabled salmon of previous chapters) and sat on the couch, chatting aimlessly with Antonia and Lovino about the best manner to gut pigs; a subject that the Spaniard was worryingly knowledgeable in. Feliciano's face was stiff and strangely subdued as the two Germans approached. As the blond brother drew near, his employer leapt to his feet and wrapped slim arms around the bodyguards muscled waist,

"_Mi dispiace_, Ludwig, but I cannot let you leave!" his voice was muffled by Ludwig's pectorals, and the Italian could not deny that there was a certain element of wish fulfilment in this hug. It made his nerves tingle to hold the large German like this.

"_Idiota!_" Lovino yelled at the same time as Antonia cried, "_estúpido!_" And Elizaveta growled, "Way to give the game away, Feli!"

"You're the best," Feliciano continued, used to the abuse, "I would be the worst kind of fool to let you leave. Or, you know, _pensionamento . . ._"

"Like fucking hell." Gilbert interjected.

"_Si_," Feli agreed, "Now, you go shopping with Eliza, and then we can go get Gelato. _Si_?"

"_Ja_, Herr Vargas," as much as he tried to stamp out whatever it was; fondness or lust that was melting the ice in his eyes, the spark stubbornly remained.

~====o)0(o====~

"Elizaveta," Ludwig stretched the pieced of elasticised black fabric sceptically between his thumbs and forefingers, "whatever size you think this birth canal is; it's not mine."

"Try it on. Go on. I'm pregnant, you have to do what I say," she snapped before whipping a pair of slate grey slacks from his wide shoulders, "And give those back, they're for me, not you!"

Shockingly, the shirt fit. The pants too, and the boots weren't half bad. There were some issues with the sunglasses though. Elizaveta thought they were necessary, Ludwig did not. But a compromise had been reached. The glasses were purchased and Lutz got a rather nice leather jacket into the bargain.

Gilbert was right; he was getting paid a king's ransom to listen to Feli fuck strangers four nights out of five. The other night it was generally someone he knew.

Ludwig stopped and stared at the glass window. What a beauty. He looked longingly beyond the plate glass, then down at the jacket he had purchased, then back up at the window. He couldn't possibly . . .

Ludwig looked down at the bank-balance in his hand and smiled. Oh, but he _could_.

~====o)0(o====~

"Ve~! Ludwig!" The sound made the German's eyes widen imperceptibly, and he turned on his heel only to have his employer crash into him, his soon-to-be-sister-in-law in tow. As quick as a flash, the exchange was made; Elizaveta was hauled off in one direction by Antonia to plan the party and Ludwig was pulled futilely in the opposite direction by Feliciano in order to get ice-cream and the ingredients for spaghetti bolognaise.

~====o)0(o====~

Laden with assorted ice-cream flavours and types of flours, meat and vegetables, the instant Ludwig paused to check the list Antonia had so kindly written up, Feli was gone, and it took a second too long for the bodyguard o locate him, leaning nonchalantly against a golden wall next to an alley with two pretty women. His attention was focused on the one with, to put it mildly, vast tracts of land. Or in Gilbert's terminology; _Holy hot motherfuck damn hell titties_.

The Italian turned around to spot his companion, and smiled broadly, waving him over. The taller of the two women had ash-blonde hair and pale blue eyes, which immediately set klaxons shrieking in Ludwig's head. What disturbed him more was that the smaller of the two, whose eyes were a bright, clear blue and whose hair was long and frosted gold, had a distinct air of menace about her.

"Ve~ Lutz, meet my new friends, Katyusha and Natalya!" with twin smiles of utmost malice, the women waved.

**Sorry about the cliffhanger, and that this is a bit short and rushed towards the end. I'm tired, I have exams, my art (the physical book in which I draw) has gone AWOL from the school exhibition and I put a motherfuckton of work into that so I'm kind of in a bad mood and generally feeling shit.**

**On the plus side, the book I was relieved of won me an award before it went. **

**I'm feeling better. ^_^**

**This was meant to be one chapter, but I'm going to have to break it in twain to stop my own head asploding. To everyone who reviewed, I love you all so very much, but I can't be fucked to list you all right now. I'll do a double listing next chapter. 15 reviews last chapter! Man, I love you guys SO EFFING MUCH! **

**Review, please? Advance thankies. **


	8. Miss Kiss Kiss Bang

**And this one goes out to Skullover, who is almost offended that she had to watch this.  
>Sorry about that then ^_^; Again, thank you to JustAmel for correcting my Spanish.<br>HOLY CONTINUITY ERROR, BATMAN! It's fixed, thank goodness! I went to bed thinking "where did he get that gun from?" ^_^**

**Ah, screw it. A mention of non-cesty AmeriCan**

**EVERYBODY IN THIS LIST, I LOVE YOU! If you aren't on the list it just means that I forgot that I love you, or I don't love you yet. Review and that will all change. Chapter 6: Unknown Variable, Axxi, RomaneLuka, Oreocooky, Catsdon'tcry, Kitty-Chan and Nya-Chan, Frogbert, btw, wishingdragon, Seisakusha-sama, KajiMori, JustAmel, xXxBlurplexXx, Fathommyeyes and Skullover.  
>Chapter 7: Kiko33, JustAmel, Seiliez Winegalas, Skullover, ichiman, brattyteenagewerewolf, Invisible Randomer, KajiMori and Queen Glory (though in all technicality, she reviewed chapter 1). <strong>

**And another shout out to my lone Ukranian reader!**

Natalia Arlovskaya and Yekaterina Braginskaya were not actually sisters. If they were it would have made the minor detail that they were lovers supremely worrisome. It was true that Yekaterina- Katyusha to her friends – was Ivan Braginsy's biological sister and that was why Ivan called them his sisters, because in all technicality, according to Common Law, Natalya was his sister-in-law, even though none of their states allowed for the two women to marry. It was difficult to be anything other than heterosexual in the Slavic states. Not that Natalya would ever consent to be married. She still had a somewhat shameful flame for her lover's brother.

They had been waiting for the Italian and his German to come, and they had not been disappointed.

~====o)0(o====~

Feliciano had spotted them out of the corner of his eye, two, tall, statuesque women standing besides an alley and a pile of hay. One had long, shimmering pale gold hair that reminded him irksomely of a certain German – whom was becoming increasingly difficult to put out of mind – while the other girl was taller with a silvery pixie-cut and a rack that would put any medieval torture device to shame.

"Hello, ladies! You're both so lovely!" he smiled, slipping automatically into his charming ways, despite that irritating little voice that told him it would be foolish to antagonise Beast when he had already stated his disapproval. Oh well. It wasn't his fault that the grumpy old man wasn't getting any! Although Ludwig was only 28 to his 22. And maybe it was his fault? Should he offer his services? Later perhaps, he thought, gravitating to the taller woman's breasts like the moon does to the earth.

"Thank you," the long-haired woman whispered. Her voice had an odd chill to it and her heavy eyelashes shaded her eyes so whatever expression they might have contained was hidden. She reminded Feli vaguely of Regan MacNeil, of _Exorcist_ fame. Her voice also bore a strong Slavic accent and the Italian's hand travelled automatically towards the gun he was already kicking himself for putting in such a laughably inaccessible place as his ankle.

"So, where are you beautiful _signorinas_ from?" he asked, trying his damnedest to sound nonchalant and only just succeeding.

"I'm from Ukraine, and Natalya is from Belarus, I'm Yekaterina, but _you,_" and here she leant in, emphasising the way that her breasts were straining against her button-up shirt and exposing enough cleavage to make Feliciano want to swoon, "can call me Katyusha." She smiled flirtatiously.

Now, despite all evidence to the contrary, Feliciano Armand Vargas was not entirely stupid. He had studied geography, and he knew his history. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that Belarus and Ukraine had been part of the Soviet Union, which had been controlled by Russia. He also knew exactly where those two countries were located; right on the border of the Russian Federation. However, he dismissed it as paranoia. There was no way two such enchanting ladies could possibly be mobsters, and he told them that he thought as much.

"That's so sweet of you," Katyusha purred, "but what's your name?"

"Feliciano," he grinned, about to launch a full-scale attack on whatever viginities these two may yet posses when he heard those familiar footsteps, those secretly desired footsteps, he turned to give Ludwig his best smile, a handful of watts brighter more eager than the one he had given the women, and a cheery wave.

Ve~ Lutz, meet my new friends, Katyusha and Natalya!"

The German looked as at ease as a baby mouse in the presence of a snake as the two women smiled at him.

"Hallo, fraus," Ludwig's answering smile was slightly warped, he could see the striking resemblance between Ivan Braginsky and Katyusha and he wished Feliciano eternally too-tightie whities for not realising it himself, "could I speak with Feliciano a moment?"

"But we wanted him to show us around Rome," Natalya said softly, the edge to her voice brooked no argument.

"Yes, we wanted Feliciano to show us around Rome," Katyusha agreed, her sugary smile beginning to decay.

"He's from Napoli," the German countered.

"You're being awfully stubborn, Mr Beilschmidt," the Ukrainian said, her face suddenly uncomfortable close.

"Frau," Ludwig's voice carried more promise of mutually assured destruction than the WMD-toting lovechild of the Cuban missile crisis and North Korea, "I don't recall giving you my name."

That was Yekaterina and Natalya's "Oh, _shit_" moment.

Ludwig and Feliciano's was when the women drew their weapons.

~====o)0(o====~

"Have you checked up on Antonia Carriedo?" Alfred asked, somehow managing to keep the three hamburgers he had just shoved down his gullet from spewing a meteor shower of crumbs all over Arthur's paperwork.

"Of course, I have," the Englishman sighed; these past three days had been a never-ending migraine, "Exactly how incompetent do you think I am?"

"I reckon 'bout half as incompetent as you think I am," watching the man down another four burgers in quick succession, Arthur came to the conclusion that Alfred had no gag reflex whatsoever. He then tried very, very hard not to think about what a _useful_ skill that was.

"Have you checked her out in person?" the American probed, when his companion didn't reply.

"Unlike _you_, Agent Jones, _I _am not a field agent," And wouldn't that tone of voice just kill a puppy? "No, I have not 'checked her out in person'. That's above my pay grade."

"C'mon, Artie! We're _international superspies_! Don't give me any bull about pay, we are the _shit_!"

Oh dear. Alfred F Jones was one of them; the so called 'Heroes'; the men and women who went above and beyond the call of duty to protect civilians and the world. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, but they were often delusional along with it, and if the words '_we're international superspies'_ didn't scream '_deranged vigilante with a badge and a gun_' then Arthur didn't know what did.

"Besides," Alfred continued, a dangerously devious smirk alighting on his boyish face, "as the newbie on this mission, you are required to follow me wherever I may go, _and_," that smile, the Englishman decided, was most certainly _not_ the cause of the slow flush that was a minute or so away from its brick-red arrival in his cheeks, "as you so kindly pointed out, I _am_ a field agent, thus allowing us to make further inroads into this investigation!"

"Oh, bollocks," Arthur muttered. This was a bad idea of such spectacular enormity that it made the Hindenburg incident look like the work of Einstein. Unhappily, he followed the bouncing American out the door. If this turned out as badly as he thought it would, then the Brit would have more than a few choice phrases to hurl Alfred's way.

~====o)0(o====~

The streets were ridiculously quiet. There were only four people in the narrow street; the two women and the two men. _Where was everyone else?_ Ludwig knew he shouldn't have listened to Feliciano when the Italian told him to put his gun in his boot, even if it had made some sort of sense at the time. Now the firearm was impossible to reach without exposing Feliciano, whom he had shoved behind his back, to either the ominous-looking throwing dagger Natalya was aiming or four-pronged pitchfork that Yekaterina was wielding. Well, it might have been possible to reach, but that would involve doing something very similar to the mid-air splits from a standing position. Ludwig would then either fall over or end up skewered on the tines of –really, where did she even get that thing? It was industrial sized – that truly unpleasant looking piece of farm equipment. The reason for this was, and this was something that hadn't even crossed Feliciano's mind when he hired the German; Lutz had always had a little difficulty standing on one leg with toppling to the floor in whatever position would be considered the most humiliating in that situation. Currently that would be the one where he was non-fatally and embarrassingly stabbed with a garden tool while his charge was slaughtered by two insane females of the Bratva persuasion.

Faster than he would have thought possible of someone holding such an ungainly instrument, Yekaterina raised her pitchfork and charged Ludwig, raising it above her head and bringing it down hard in an attempt to knock him out. The German unthinkingly raised his arm and the tines of the tool came down hard on his Ulna.

That's going to bruise, Lutz thought, grimly noting the volts of searing electric pain that were now lancing from the site of his arm-fork showdown as he grabbed the handle and twisted it, pulling Katyusha forwards and trying to shake her off. Stubbornly refusing to let go, she tried to use the distance gained to reach Feliciano without letting go and giving him a proper opportunity to stop her. At the same time, Natalya tried to dart around Ludwig's other side, her knife poised. In an attempt to stop her while still holding onto her counterpart, he grabbed her right arm with his left. With a quick and oddly serene smile, she produced another, identical knife from somewhere on her person, and slashed at the arm holding her. Ludwig drew back just in time to avoid any serious injury, instead receiving only a light scratch on his bicep.

Natalya started forwards Feli and drew her arm back. She was about to let the dagger fly when Ludwig stuck his foot out, tripping her. The dagger flew wide, though that did not stop the Italian from letting rip with a terrified shriek. As soon as she was down, the Belorussian was getting back on her feet, somehow having sourced yet another dagger. Quickly, the German jerked the shaft of the pitchfork towards himself, startling Katyusha and making her stumble, too. He then used the butt of the shaft to push her back against the wall she had been lounging against when she ensnared Feliciano. The stick collided with her solar-plexus, effectively winding her. Ludwig would have liked to have said that that was his excellent marksmanship coming into play, but the truth was that with the arm hurting the way it was, he was lucky that he could hit the broad side of a barn, let alone a square-inch piece of struggling Ukrainian. Turning his attention back to Natalya, he picked her up and – thankfully before her knife-wielding hands could do him any serious damage, only a few more scraps slightly deeper than the first – threw her against Yekaterina.

Short of believing that it would be a good idea to keep his gun in his boot, turning around to tell Feliciano to run was possibly the biggest mistake Ludwig made that afternoon.

"Herr Vargas, get out of here!" the German snarled. He could feel blood collecting in his arm and it was beginning to pulse and burn unpleasantly.

"No!" despite his shaking knees and wide-eyed expression of terror, the young Italian's voice was resolute. Perhaps he was too scared to run?

"_Ich habe keine Zeit für diesen_!" he spat, turning back to face the aggressors. What he was instead faced with was two angry looking women, one with a pitchfork and the other with two knives. All three weapons were pressed worrisomely close to his jugular vein and carotid artery. _And_, he thought irritably_, I_ really _don't have time for_ this!

There were two distinct clicks behind Ludwig; the clicks of guns being cocked.

"_Signorinas_," once again Feliciano's voice had the smooth and slightly eerie quality of a perfectly flat lake-surface; there had to be something beneath that, even if it was, in this instance, fear, "my bullets will travel faster than you can duck. If you would be so kind as to release my man?"

The two women looked at each other before simultaneously shoving Ludwig away, only causing him to stagger slightly, and dodging the artificially quieted bullets of Feliciano's gun while running into the alley they had been found next to. Bending down and grabbing his own gun at long last, Ludwig ran after them, but they were gone. They must have had an escape route planned out from the beginning. They had planned this. They had known that Feli and Lutz would be there. That sent a chill down the German's spine.

"Ve~ we need to get some more ice-cream and eggs," Feliciano said, morosely poking the abandoned groceries with the toe of his shoe. Ludwig only just resisted the urge to roll his eyes and grit his teeth; instead he simply sighed and went to pick up the fallen shopping. As he tried to lift a particularly heavy bag of flour with his right hand, it spasmed and he instead picked it up with his left hand. He was going to have to have Gilbert take a look at that later. For all his brother's strangeness, he was a pretty good doctor, and the main reason that Ludwig could usually pass as one.

Feeling somewhat wrung out, the German followed after his employer like a guard dog, which is all he was, really. Back to the ice-cream. Not usually given to open displays of misapprehension, he shuddered. They had been in there for three hours last time . . .

~====o)0(o====~

"Artie," Alfred's easy smile was nerve-wracking in its confidence, "relax, it'll be fine!" so saying, he knocked twice on the office door that read _Carriedo Landscaping International_ in a professional, if artsy-looking script. It said the same again underneath in Italian and Spanish, and opened it. There were two men inside. Both had wavy blonde hair and blue eyes, though the one without facial hair wore glasses and his eyes were a darker blue than the others.

Arthur walked forward only to walk smack into the frozen American before him. As though the collision, much like the Heimlich manoeuvre removes food, had dislodged it from his airways, Alfred blurted out a single word; a question; a name.

"_Matthew?_" he asked incredulously, and although he couldn't see Alfred's face, he imagined that it mirrored the one of the blond who was sitting _behind_ the desk, as opposed to _on_ it.

"_Alfred?_" the alleged Matthew returned the question, but flipped it back on its sender, "what the _hell_ are you _doing_ here?"

"Looking into the possibilities of garden landscaping, what are _you_ doing here?"

The toxic atmosphere of two reunited exes who had parted on bad terms pervaded the room like Zyklon B, choking the room's occupants with its malignant presence.

"Mathieu, _chou_, who is this?" asked the expensively dressed man sitting on the desk. He crossed his legs, leant over Matthew protectively and spoke with a French accent.

"No one, _mon amour_," the boy had what sounded similar to an American accent, but not quite, that was as far as Arthur could place it, "just some hoser who dumped me in college."

Canadian then.

"Whoa, there, Mattie!" Alfred held up his hands as though that would fend off the accusations, "_you_ dumped _me_! You said I was a pig and started running with the stoners!"

"Alfred," Francis was appalled at how quickly his boyfriend's amenable nature had vanished into the ether, "you dumped me when you joined the FBI. Apparently a government job and a relationship just can't happen at the same time," the ice in the Canadian's voice made a Winnipeg winter seem positively moderate by comparison.

There was a silence in the room as all four blondes considered the statement, and in the silence the acronym _FBI _grew until it was The Federal Bureau of Investigations. That then stretched and expanded until it was _Alfred Fucking Jones Is An Agent Of The Federal Fucking Bureau of Investigations Of The United Fucking States of America And He Is Standing In The HQ of My Boss, A Wanted Drug Lord. Fuck Damn._ Or that was what Matthew though it said. Francis was pretty sure that it said _He Still Has A Thing For His Old Ex, Fuck_. Arthur thought it said _Arse, There Goes Our Cover_, and Alfred himself, who had caused all this ruckus, thought _Huh, Guess I Really Am Over Him. I Could Go For An Ice-Cream Right About Now_.

"Well," the American continued as if any previous exchanges where nothing bad a bad acid flashback, "we're looking to invest in some landscaping, aren't we, babe?" he asked, pulling Arthur to the forefront of the conversation.

"Oh, absolutely," Arthur chimed in, hoping that it wasn't too late to salvage his own cover, "but Alfie and I have such different tastes that we need help deciding, w simply can't reach a compromise. We're both so stubborn," he tittered inanely for added effect.

"Well, either Francis here or Antonia be able to help you, I'm sure. We have an opening next," he paused and flipped through the diary at his elbow, "Thursday, if you can come in at eleven-thirty?"

"Perfect, Matthew, absolutely marvellous!" Arthur trilled, and Alfred did his damnedest not to fall about laughing. From what he has seen over the past few days, the Englishman was a grumpy old man, not some kind of twittering arse-bandit.

"That'll be dandy, Matt, thanks," Alfred automatically tugged on the brim of his hat before remembering it wasn't there and looking a little abashed.

"I'll just fill you in, Alfred Jones and . . . ?"he looked to Arthur expectantly.

"James Kirk," Arthur smiled vapidly. Matthew quirked an eyebrow, Alfred tried and almost failed to hide his surprise, and Francis barely refrained from toppling from his perch with laughter.

"Do you watch a lot of Star Trek, Mr Kirk?" Matthew asked sceptically.

"Never seen it in my life," the Brit looked as vacuous as was humanly possible with his eyebrows, "people always ask me that, so I suppose I should, shouldn't I?"

"It might be an idea," the Canadian said drily.

"Tell you what, Matt, we'll rent it tonight," Alfred said, steering the suddenly brainless MI6 agent from the office, "see y'all around, right?"

"Right," Matthew and Francis waved, smiling. As soon as the door was shut, the Frenchman turned to the Canadian, "do you want to call her, _chou_, or shall I?" without another word, _chou_ picked up the receiver and dialled.

~====o)0(o====~

"D'ya know what I could eat right now, Artie?" Alfred asked as they exited the office block where Antonia's company resided.

"An ice-cream." Arthur answered flatly.

"How'dya know?" the American asked, genuinely shocked, "D'you have PMS?"

"It's _EMT_," the Englishman ground out, "and no, I don't. However, I do know that aside from hamburgers, it's all that you've eaten for three days straight, so it was a safe bet. And my name is _Arthur_!"

"Right you are, Artie." The American just kept walking as though nothing had happened. Arthur couldn't ignore it; it was bubbling in his gut, forcing its way through. It was there, churning in his stomach like a butter churn; from whence cometh the adjective. It was going to make a mess at any second, oh, dear God, he wasn't going to be able to hold it in, fuck!

"You're gay." Arthur verbally shat himself.

"As a rainbow. D'ya have a problem with that?"the FBI agent raised an eyebrow, his expression uncharacteristically serious.

"That would be rather hypocritical of me, wouldn't it?"the Brit scoffed. Alfred smiled,

"You, too huh?"

"Queer as folk," Arthur declared. There was a glint in the American's eye that might just have been the low slung sun reflecting off his glasses, or the beginnings of a devious plot. Arthur didn't notice either way.

"Just for that," Alfred grinned happily, "I'm going to get you an ice-cream."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will!"

"No, you won't!"

"What flavour?"

"No!"

"Come on! One lousy li'l ice cream ain't gone kill ya!" If it were at all possible, Alfred had thickened his accent for that last sentence, and though he would vehemently deny it if he were ever questioned, it Arthur thought is sounded kind of sexy. Just a little, mind.

"Fine," he relented, "vanilla."

"Knew it! I had you pegged as a vanilla man the seconded I laid eyes on you!"

And once more, we were back to being annoying.

~====o)0(o====~

There were two blondes picking out ice-cream at the same time as Feliciano and Ludwig. The German felt an estranged kinship with the scruffier of the two, who appeared to be on his absolute last nerve with the other, who was jumping about and taking just about as long to choose a flavour as Feli was.

As the two couples worked their way through the shockingly extensive range of ice-creams, sorbets and frozen yoghurts, they – much like Lady and the Tramp sharing that one exceptionally long piece of spaghetti – met in the middle. Feli immediately began chatting to Alfred, who responded with his own string of idiot-blather. Arthur sighed and glanced at the intimidating man besides him,

"Just like children, aren't they?" he asked. The taller man chuckled wryly, his face somehow remaining impassive,

"He's more like a child than any o the children I have ever known," his accent was very thickly German, and Arthur wondered if there were any actual Italians in Italy at the moment, or if they had all gone to the rest of Europe, while the Rest of Europe invaded them.

The four continued with their idle chatter for another few minutes before Alfred and Feliciano, having helped each other decide, chose their ice-creams and the two parties broke off to pay.

"A nice bloke, that," Arthur commented as Alfred swiped his American Express.

"Yeah, the little dude was pretty rockin'. He invited me to a party next week!"

The Brit gave his companion a stern glare as they walked down the street towards where they had parted the car,

"Alfred, we don't have time. We have a job to do. We are _not_ going to that party!"

"Artie, do you realise who we were just talking to? This is Antonia Carriedo's engagement party. That was Feliciano Vargas and Ludwig Beilschmidt we were just chatting with!"

"Alfred," Arthur's voice was firm, "_we are going to that party!"_

**I read something the other day that said "don't write the way you speak". This IS the way I speak; you can ask anyone I know! Anyway, long chapter is long, and would be longer, but I'm once again ill (fuck you, too, immune system) and it's late and I can't think straight. Once again, I extend the offer of beating me about the head with whatever error you spot. Please tell me so I can fix it.**

**Special, ironic thanks to my mother for causing me to have an emotional meltdown right before the fight scene, and even specialer, non-ironic thanks to Woodbyne for helping me through that fight scene, and not letting me get distracted! **

**Yes, I will be slipping bad WWII jokes into this. Yes, I ship AmeriCan like a mofo and I will not stop. The same goes for BelaKraine and Franada. The USUK is for Woodbyne, because she loves it so. I can't say I don't either. Now if only I could stop drooling over all the other pairings and get on with some decent GerIta! Long AN is very long. **

**Please review!**** I will love you forever and ever and ever and if you do we can get married, married, **_**married, married, married, married, married, married, married, married, married, married, married**_**.**

**I love Belarus.**


	9. Help, I'm Alive

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY WOODBYNE! LEGAL AT LAST, SWEETHEART! May your day be filled with love, laughter, and be as wonderful as you are. **

**Dear Ichiman, who waited patiently for chapter 7, and told me not to rush chapter 8. **

**Did NO-ONE spot the continuity error I made with Feli's gun? The magically appearing Beretta? No? Well, it's gone now, so haha! Much love to: Kiko33, Tokkalover, Skullover, JustAmel, KajiMori, Cat'sdon'tcry, Stripes93, run-for-your-life-hikari, Seisakusha-sama, Tala, Oreocooky, ShadowDragonMistess (third-party reviews ftw!) and Woodbyne!**

**JustAmel**** is henceforth to be known as ****The Supreme Spanish Editor In Chief****. **

**Dear readers, never use blunt scissors to cut your own hair, it hurts. On that note, it doesn't look too bad. I love cutting my own hair. **

**In case anyone missed the hints I've been dropping, Gilbert has a medical degree; "**_not even me and my mad MD skillz_**", "**_For all his brother's strangeness, he was a pretty good doctor_**". **

**They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I therefore imitate my dear friend, Tala: 100****th**** reviewer gets a oneshot: anything they like. Yes/Yes? **

"_Mein Gott_, Lutz!" Gilbert asked, utterly flabbergasted, as he gently prodded the swollen, bruised flesh of his little brother's arm, "you look like Violet effing Beauregard! What the fuck did you _do_?"

"I did my job; can't you just tell me what's wrong?" Ludwig sighed. This is why Gilbert was not actually employed as a doctor; he had the bedside manner of a carnivorous goat.

"Well I can't say for sure with an X-ray, but I think you have a fractured Ulna," he looked quizzically at the blonde, "someone hit you very hard with something very heavy, that's for sure. What was it?"

"A pitchfork."

The albino raised his brows before deciding that yes, his brother was indeed being serious, and falling about with laughter, "Looks like we found your kryptonite, Lutz!"

At the same time that this was happening, Feliciano was joyously eating his ice-cream while the tomatoes boiled down, and happily telling his brother about his new friend Alfred.

"Alfred?" Antonia asked; an expression of utter horror, "Alfred Jones? An American?"

"_Si!_ He's great. Who knew Rocky Road was so good? I invited him and his friend Artie to your party." Feli chirped, licking dairy product from his fingers in a manner that, to Ludwig's rebellious mind, was shockingly alluring.

"_Por Dios_!" the Spanish woman yelled, tearing at her hair, "How can you be so stupid, Feli? He's an FBI agent! He's been on my tail for months! And now he's in Rome, knocking on my door! And he's coming to my engagement party! I didn't even know he knew who I was! ¿Qué voy a hacer? _What am I going to do?_"

"He could be looking into us," Feli said dreamily, dropping the spoon into the empty cup.

"Estupido! Why would he be looking into you?"Antonia raved, gesturing wildly.

"Well, we do have branches in New York," the younger Italian continued serenely.

"So does everybody else! I have branches in New York, the people who are after you have branches in New York, The only people who _don't_ have branches in New York are the tribes of the Amazon Jungle, and that's because it's too far to commute! No puedes ser así de estupido." _You can't really be that stupid._

"_Mi dispiace_, Antonia! I didn't know!"Feliciano shrugged, unrepentant. Alfred was a nice guy with decent taste in ice-cream. He wasn't going to un-invite the two men just because the party's hostess had a bit with his employer. That would be rude.

"Yo, Pasta-monkey!" Gilbert called, summoning Feliciano for duty, "I need you to drive the Beast to the hospital. Ask for a radiologist, get an x ray and then bring it and him straight back here. I don't want those quacks messing with my little brother."

"Can this wait, Gil?" Antonia sighed, "I'm not done yelling at him yet."

"No, it can't. I need to re-align his arm and brace it before it sets badly," the elder German gestured to the Coquelicot and deep Byzantium bruises on Ludwig's forearm.

"Ve~ Ludwig! I'm sorry! This is my fault!" Feliciano threw his arms around his bodyguard, "I should have known it was a trap! I'm sorry. You shouldn't get hurt protecting me."

Ludwig looked at the moderately sized man wrapped around his middle like an octopus on chopsticks. He had being trying to view Feliciano through paternal goggles, but he felt no fatherly emotions as he looked at the Italian. No pride, no anger, no disappointment. Only concern for his wellbeing and a twinge of happiness. But that happiness was always there, it was the joy of being congratulated on a job well-done. But he had felt it earlier, not paternally as he would have wanted, but a desire to protect this beautiful idiot from hurt and heartbreak. It ached in his chest that only a year and a half had passed and this smiling boy was carefully wiping all of the German's well-deserved sorrow away. Feliciano looked up, his eyes creased and half-closed in a glowing grin, his almost monochrome colouring muted in the early-evening light. Ludwig's jaw hardened and he looked away, why wouldn't this brat just leave him to be miserable in peace?

"It's my job, Herr Vargas," he said quietly, extricating himself from those ensnaring arms, and walking into the kitchen to fetch some more ice for his arm, leaving Feliciano with an answer that was not only dismissive, but deeply, niggling-ly unsatisfactory.

Gilbert's eyes narrowed. That tensing of Ludwig's jaw. He had seen it before. That in itself was worrisome. Because Ludwig was so closed about his emotions it was easy to miss the signs of a river running deep, but as his brother, Gilbert was well versed in the art of reading his little bother's face- and body-language. And the albino would be damned if he didn't know that face, he had seen it before and he didn't doubt that he would see it again. It was unfortunate; however, that dear _Bruderlein _Ludwig was making his I-have-feelings-for-you-but-I-can't-admit-it-to-myself-or-anyone-else face at Feliciano Vargas at such an unstable time, in such unstable circumstances and with what were bound to be catastrophic results. What the fucking hell was his straight, anal (the pun was probably intended) brother doing making I-don't-want-to-want-you eyes at his boss, anyway? What was the world coming to?

Shaking his head in bemused wonder at it all, Gilbert noted that Ludwig was back with ice. Feli smiled a little tightly, a two year old couldn't have missed the brush-off his bodyguard had given him, and pulled a set of keys from his pocket,

"Ve~ Beast," was there an emphasis on that nickname? It was hard to tell, "Let's go; we want to get to Salvator Mundi and back before your bone sets badly," was there mocking in that sing-song voice? Perhaps. Ludwig neither knew nor particularly cared –or so he told himself. Following as it was his duty to do, the German left the room in the wake of his diminutive Italian.

~====o)0(o====~

Francis lay on the desk in Antonia's office, his head in front of the keyboard, stopping Matthew from doing any actual work. Surprisingly enough, Antonia's landscaping company was more than a front; she actually did have a passion for topiary, gravel and water features. It was just that there was a thrill from trekking drugs over a boarder, and her talent with secateurs hadn't gone awry either. That kind of adrenaline couldn't be found in sourcing water-wise plants for environmentally minded clients. That was why she had Matthew, to help her organise both sides of the company, a young man who had been down on his luck and in need of a hit and some quick cash. Now he was three years clean and happily ensconced in a relationship; all Antonia's doing. And now the royal jerk-off who had driven him to drugs was not only back in his life, he was threatening to destroy everything he had worked so hard to have; a life, love.

The problem with Alfred and Matthew had been that Matthew; for all that he was an independent person, liked a little bit of attention, not much, mind, just enough so that he didn't feel utterly invisible. Alfred's personality was not conducive to that. Alfred was an attention magnet, an attention whore; you couldn't help but look at him. And everyone had forgotten about sweet, quiet Matthew. One day an old friend had offered him a hit of heroin and he hadn't looked back. Then Antonia and Francis had found him. Francis, who never forgot Mattie, who never hogged the spotlight, who went out of his way for his new ward. Francis whose azure blue eyes sedately waited for the Canadian to finish his train of thought and speak. The bespectacled man raised a hand and combed his finders through the Frenchman's thick blonde hair, gently tucking heavy locks behind his ear and out of his eyes. He rested his palm on Francis's cheek and the man leant his face into it.

"How is this going to end?" Matthew asked quietly, laying his head on his lover's chest so as to hear his heart. A sigh resonated in the younger's eardrum, and then it was Francis's fingers weaving themselves into the strands of his hair, curling it around his digits before smoothing it out.

"I don't know, _chou_, but I'm rather hoping that we aren't imprisoned."

"_Mon amant_," Matthew whispered into the Frenchman's favourite blue shirt, "_mon Coeur, mon tout._ My lover, my heart, my all." He would have added that jail might not be quite so bad with Francis at his side, but he knew better than to say something so desperately romantic when prison would be quite as bad with Francis at his side or without, the difference was that they would be together.

~====o)0(o====~

"Arse!" Arthur yelled, tripping mightily over that god-forsaken carpet again. He had spoken to the landlord about it, but so far northing was being done. Now that the groceries were spread liberally across the floor, he realised that he had forgotten to get leeks. Ah well, the soup would taste just as well without it. However, when he got to the kitchen, Alfred was already there, stirring corn flour into a roux.

"Lad, your enthusiasm is all well and good, but I believe it was my turn to cook," not that he particularly minded the American's cooking, it was actually quite good, but a little more variety would have been nice.

"Nope. I changed the roster," Alfred said cheerily, slowly adding milk to the mixture while working it with a wooden spoon.

"You can't just-" Arthur trailed off. Stuck where the old roster had once been was a printed calendar with "Alfred" printed under the title of "permanent cook".

"Look here, Captain America!" the Englishman yelled, "If you take issue with something here, then maybe you should tell me about it instead of changing everything around under my nose like your bastard military!"

Alfred's face went red. Not the faint blush of someone who had been caught singing, but the colour of a man about to have an aneurism, "You may insult me, but do not insult my country," despite his face, his voice was soft, much more so than it was normally; he was a whisperer. Arthur faltered slightly, he wasn't used to arguments with people who didn't scream, but he persevered.

"I'll insult whomever I bloody well wish! You've come into my investigation and buggered the whole thing sideways!"

"And how exactly have I done that?" Alfred was sounding scarily reasonable.

"You've turned a perfectly decent routine upside down, you've probably made them all nervous and they'll suspect you! They won't say a damn thing at that party, so you might as well not go!"

There was a pause; it was a valid point, but before the American could reach any conclusion the Englishman continued,

"Actually, do go! Get the fuck out of Italy! You're not doing any good here, and I certainly neither need nor want you."

The last part was a lie, he was actually growing fond of Alfred and his brash ways, but words said in anger, though they bear truth, are seldom as serious at the speaker would have you believe.

With all the colour in his face drained, Alfred turned wordlessly and walked steadily to his room, and the door clicked shut. Arthur blinked. This called for alcohol.

~====o)0(o====~

Natalya carefully checked Katyusha for injuries, partially to check for anything amiss, but mostly for the gratification of feeling her skin sliding beneath her hands.

Rolling over, the Ukrainian did the same, gently skimming the palms of her hands over the Belarusian's flesh as a stone over water. Satisfied that they were both in one piece, Katyusha smiled, and an answering twitch was pulled from Natalya's lips. The younger woman pulled a ribbon from the bedside table and used it to push her long hair back from her face, tying a neat bow at the top. Reaching out thin fingers, she touched partner's cheek with fingertips and slightly pointed nails.

Next time, she promised silently, we will kill them next time.

~====o)0(o====~

(Timeskip of three days)

Friday evening was balmy and clear, and true to the old Sheppard's rhyme, the bloody sky promised a warm night ahead. Feliciano was bundled with Gilbert and Elizaveta while Antonia dragged a protesting Lovino ("What am I even paying him for, Antonia?") off to get him dressed. Feli had given Ludwig the afternoon off to relax and get ready for the party; he had taken the German's protestations of being worn out to heart and decided to treat him accordingly.

Waiting impatiently and eagerly for his bodyguard's arrival, Feliciano let his eyes sweep the room in case there was anyone here he hadn't slept with. Beast could deal with it, couldn't he? Really. If he was so sexually frustrated as to complain about someone else getting some, then it was hardly the Italian's fault for having a healthy sex life, now was it?

There, a motorcycle roared into the parking lot of the large pavilion that the happy couple had rented. It was a large machine, befitting to its rider, and it guttered to a halt just on the edge of the steps. The mysterious man swung a long leg over the bike, legs that Feliciano would readily and happily admit that he would certainly enjoy being between. He didn't even know what the man's face looked like and he could tell that to share his bed was his only goal this evening. There was no alternative; he wanted those hips to grind him mercilessly into the nearest available flat surface. Or the motorbike; that sounded like fun, too.

Those same legs were clothed in khaki cargo pants and tough-looking black boots. The rider shrugged off a blazer-cut leather jacket to reveal a muscle t-shirt so incredibly revealing that it could only have been black spray-paint on bare skin. Feli could see muscle and sinew rippling as he walked. The mirrored helmet was removed and pale blonde hair that had no right to look quite as wind-blown as it did. A large, pale hand was raked through that hair in an attempt to neaten it, only succeeding in mussing it further. The entire ensemble would have shrieked badass, were it not far too bad ass to do so.

That fine-boned nose, those diamond-cut cheekbones, that slightly narrow cupid's bow mouth that was naturally just a little too red for the rest of his face. Feliciano felt his mind grind to a halt. It obviously wasn't working properly. That wasn't possible, it could _not be_.

The man looked to him and made a bee-line in his direction. No, there had to be some kind of twisted misunderstanding. He must think that Feliciano was someone else, and Feliciano must be mistaking him for someone who wasn't who he thought he was. Though it seemed that his eyes were in fact not lying to him and the bewildered Italian managed to bleat out a single word that summed up all his confusion;

"_**Ludwig?**_"

**PLEASE READ THIS:**

**So once again, a happy, happy you're-legal-that-takes-all-the-fun-out-of-it-doesn't-it? To my dearest Woodbyne, without whom none of you would be reading this, please wish her a happy birthday ^_^. I'll be joining her in 20 days time.  
>Does anyone else think I should bump up the rating? Because this is technically a yaoi story, even if it hasn't gotten there yet. <strong>

**The last chapter title was **_Miss Kiss Kiss Bang_**, after the Eurovision (fuck yeah!) song of the same name by **_Alex Swings Oscar Sings_**. This chapter is called **_Help I'm Alive_** after the song by **_Metric_**, and I thought it went with Feli's confusion and the fluffeh Franada moment.  
>Also, the 100<strong>**th**** reviewer offer is go, so if you want to read something specific, then sign in and leave a review (I can't ask you what you want if you aren't signed in).  
>Sorry it's sorter than usual, but I hauled ass to get this out for her birthday ^_^ The next chapter will be longer, I hope.<br>Advance thankies to reviewers**

**~RutheLa**


	10. Blame It On The Alcohol

**Invisible Randomer, thank you for thanking me, it means a lot. :D**

**KajiMori, Seiliez Wingalas, woodbyne, Invisible Randomer, Oreocooky, Tokkalover, Seisakusha-sama , run-for-your-life-hikari , Tala, Kisa2012, Skullover, Kitty-chan and Nya-chan, **3, **littlewolfwindspeaker your reviews are much appreciated :D**

**3 (was that meant to be a heart?), just so you know; you review made me shriek so much that my sister yelled at me.**

**If anyone is interested in a Franada back-story; **_Je Suis Qui Je Suis_** (I Am Who I Am) is up ^_^**

_Spring has sprung, the grass is gris, and yet it is still cold as tits. One has to wonder why that is. _

**Ok, this needs explaining. If you have not read **_**Broken**_**, give this a once-over, if not, then carry on.**

**Broken, the summary:**_Bad men come to Lutz, they want to offer him a job, he says no. They come after him. In a desperate measure to stop them hunting down his family, he kills them (it was better than having them live through what they went through). Erm. RomaneLuka, remember how in your review for chapter 6 you thought Denmark would own a strip joint? Erm . . . I don't know how to tell you this, but he (Mathias) and Netherlands (Cat'sdon'tcry, why are you inside my mind, reading the plot before it comes?)(Lars van Dyk – which is in this instance pronounced 'Dick', rather than the 'Dyke,' which I prefer) kind of. . . Oh, gawd, I don't want to say this. They desecrated the corpses of Ludwig's wife and four-year-old daughter. I'm sorry. _

**I should NOT have done that time-skip Y_Y**

~====o)0(o====~

_Und der Haifisch der hat Tränen  
>Und die laufen vom Gesicht<br>Doch der Haifisch lebt im Wasser  
>so die Tränen sieht man nicht<em>

~====o)0(o====~

Few people knew it, and fewer still would have guessed it, but Ludwig loved heavy metal. It was pure chaos distilled under the rigid control of stave and cleft.

And what only three people alive knew, including Ludwig himself, was that he loved motorbikes. They were big, noisy, messy and dangerous, but there was just something about being the one to control the machine that roars along the tar that made him want to ride forever. There was something so thrilling about being the master of the throbbing, snarling beast between his thighs that he couldn't get anywhere else.

Many people, more specifically Gilbert, had hidden a laugh behind a cough and a smirk behind a hand while making snide comments about "overcompensation", and "are you sure you aren't?"

No. He wasn't.

Putting it from his mind, and the pain in his arm and the thought of the dentist's appointment he had just had. Things that he also tried not to focus on were the way his hair kept slipping out of its slicked-back style and the fact that he might as well not have been wearing a shirt at all for all the good this one did.

There was Feliciano Vargas, standing and staring with his mouth so wide open that he resembled a cartoon character. What was he staring at? Ludwig could only hope that it wasn't him that his employer was ogling. Really, if the German had been his father- he stopped that thought before it got any further. That was a thought that made him unreasonably uncomfortable.

"_**Ludwig**_?" the stunned looking Italian asked, his voice croaking.

"Ja, Herr Vargas. Is there something that you want?" That stare was beginning to make him feel uneasy. Feli swallowed thickly. _Yes_, there was something that he wanted.

"Lutz!" Elizaveta tackled the German, though it did nothing to sway his stance.

"_Was_, Lizavet?" he said, breathing out sharply through his nose. That had jolted his arm badly, and pin lanced through him.

"Ooh! Your arm, I'm sorry. But you aren't wearing your glasses," her expression flickered from maternal to stern and back like static on an old TV.

"It's unnecessary; it's almost dark out, I do not need sunglasses."

"Put them on," she said, pulling a pair of mirrored black wrap-around glasses from her pocket and holding them out expectantly. When had she even gotten them? With a sigh, and feeling no desire to resist the pregnant woman when he had opted not to take a painkiller, he took the eyewear and put it on. He folded his arms across his chest, mindful of the struts of the metal brace, and leant back.

"Am I decent?" he asked sardonically.

"You look like you would suck someone's internal organs out through his urethra," she smiled happily while Feli blanched at the image.

"Forget _Beast; du bist ein Haifisch_!" Gilbert smirked, punching his brother lightly on the uninjured arm.

"_Hi, fish_? What the _fuck_ are you talking about?" Lovino asked, having been returned to the crowd, fiancé by his side.

"_Haifisch_, sir, means _shark_," the albino explained slowly, as though he was speaking to someone of exceptional stupidity.

"He does look like one, _doesn't he, Feliciano_?" Antonia said with a grin of utter mischief plucking at the corners of her mouth. Feli nodded dumbly, then swallowed,

"Ve~? Oh, ah, yes. _Si_," he coughed a few times to cover his pause, and Ludwig arched a singular blonde eyebrow behind his shades, it crossed the Italian's barely functioning mind that he looked like a thrice-as-sexy version of the Terminator.

For want of anything better to do, mostly because his mind was still trying to process that shirt, Feliciano decided to stay and greet guests with Lovi and Antonia. Was that a-? Any blood that wasn't colouring the Italian's cheeks a rather becoming pink headed south. That was a nipple. The German must have felt it (in that it-can't-be-latex shirt, it was kind of hard not to. Tee-hee-hee) and adjusted the arms folded across his chest so that they covered the bottom of his pectorals.

"_Chilly, Lutz_?" Gilbert laughed. Apparently Feli wasn't the only one noticing certain protrusions, because Antonia and Elizaveta were also a little pink about the cheeks. But it bears reiteration; who _wouldn't_ be?

Ludwig looked away, trying to calm a rising blush without Lamaze breathing.

"It's this _verdammt_ material. It's _abrasive_," he said curtly.

Elizaveta smiled to herself. This was going perfectly, she thought, glancing at Feliciano's blush, which seemed ready to settle down and start a family on his cheeks.

"If you give me three cows, I can fix it," Feli said suddenly, a strange light in his eyes.

Three cows. What. The. _Fuck_?

Ludwig's face contorted briefly as he considered how best to answer that proposition. However, before he could say anything, Lovino shot him a sidelong glance,

"Don't take him up on that unless you can actually _pay him in __**cows**_. It's a mistake I've made before."

Gilbert and Antonia sighed, both of them looking, ahem, sheepish,

"Haven't we all?" Gilbert asked wistfully.

"I still owe him fourteen cows!" Antonia groaned, holding her head.

"With enough cows and twenty minutes, that little fucker can fix _anything_," Lovino said, "dead useful, but I honestly don't what to know what the fuck he does with them, I mean- shit!" he said, glancing at the veritable queue of people waiting to congratulate he and his bride.

"_Mi dispiace_," he said, turning on the charm, "_grazie!_" he said as the _'congratulazioni_!' began to pour in, Antonia stood, holding his arm while he tried to pry her loose as subtly as possible.

"Get off my arm, you clingy bitch," he hissed, his smile slipping slightly.

"I'll spank you for that later, darling," she smiled, pulling Matthew and Francis into a double hug.

"How are my favourite worker bees?" she asked while Lovino shook their hands.

"Busy, busy, busy," Francis smiled. There was something about the way the Frenchman smiled that always made it seem like he was telling a dirty joke and that made the Italian very uncomfortable. Ignoring the fiery glare from his best friend/employer's fiancé, Francis dropped his hand so that it was kneading Matthew's behind, "and we'd be _busier_ still if you weren't having a party, _cher_."He winked, and the young man next to him went bright red and poked his lover in the arm,

"_Not now_, Francis," the Canadian hissed.

Bickering softly, or rather Matthew was objecting and Francis was providing elicit and tempting reasons to either skive out early or find a quiet corner, the two walked away.

The next guest stepped forward to be greeted. Antonia stepped forwards and kissed him on both cheeks. His spiky hair was the same as it had been, and the slight coldness lingered in his eyes.

"_Gefeliciteerd_, Toni!" he smiled at her, "It's been too long!" he returned the kisses to her cheeks, slightly closer to her mouth than was necessary. _Congratulations_.

"Ah, same old van _Dyk_," she joked, punching him quite hard in the shoulder, her smile dangerously pleasant.

"Hallo, Lars," Ludwig spoke softly, startling the rest of the party.

"Oh, _hallo_, Luddy!" the Dutchman's grin was vicious, "how's the wife?"

~====o)0(o====~

This was it. This was the moment, the reason for its invention. It was for the accurate description of this car ride that the phrase 'awkward silence' had been coined.

Truth be told, Arthur had never felt more guilty about yelling at someone in his life, sure he had felt a little guilty after yelling at his nephew, Peter, but the lad was used to his brash old uncle Arthur; his mother, Victoria, was much the same. Not that he boy hadn't deserved a good talking-to at the time.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything to break this reverberating silence, but Alfred beat him to it.

"Usually on casual day, people wear a funky tie, or a Hawaiian shirt or somethin'. But the three years that I've been with the FBI, every year I wear neon pink hot shorts, a crop top and my Stetson. Most folks think it's just because I like the attention, and some say it's me showing gay pride. But honestly, I just love those shorts. They make me feel like I've got J-Lo's ass."

Arthur couldn't resist a shaky laugh, which dropped kamikaze into the tension. A faint smile quirked at the corners of the American's mouth, but he said nothing further. Letting out a huff of air, the Englishman spoke;

"Well lad, congratulations, I'm going to eat humble pie. I," another sigh, "shouldn't have yelled. Anger management has never been one of my strong points, and well, you touched a nerve."

"So did you," Alfred said, still sounding perfectly reasonable, "my country is my family. Please don't insult it ever again."

"As long as you never mention my culinary skills ever again."

"Fair enough. That said though, I rather like cooking. Would you mind if I did? I was almost a chef!" he grinned broadly, good humour returned as if three days of acting like they had made eye-contact during a devil's three-way had never happened.

"Very well, lad, if it makes you happy," the Englishman smiled.

"Thanks, pops."

Arthur blinked a dew times. Pops. _Pops?_ He could actually _feel_ his blood pressure rising at an alarming rate.

"Exactly, Alfred, exactly," curse his habit of shouting when he was upset, "how old do you think I am?" The American was obviously had no kind of emotional gauge whatsoever and therefore frowned unconcernedly,

"Eh, I dun know," he pressed a thumb to his lower lip, pulling it down slightly, "thirty?"

It was only pure shock that kept Arthur from exploding like a faulty nuclear reactor. Alfred though he was thirty? _Thirty?_

He had just turned forty-three.

"And Alfred, would you mind telling me how old you are?" Please let this not be nearly as bad as he thought it was going to be.

"Twenty-four," the American chirped.

It was worse.

The car pulled up outside a fairy-light bedecked pavilion, and Alfred 'ooh-ed' softly, light dancing off his spectacles. He turned to grin at Arthur, who was suddenly feeling every bit as old as he was.

"Come on, cowboy," the significantly elder of the two sighed, drawing in on himself in order to be as brainless as he could possibly manage, "let's party."

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew could see them coming, Alfred and the Brit whose real name he hadn't yet managed to discover; like fuck he was actually called _James Kirk_.

The Canadian threaded his fingers through Francis's and pulled closer to the other man,

"_Amoureux_," he said quietly, "I'm scared."

"I, too, am afraid," the Frenchman smiled fondly up at Matthieu.

"We'll be scared together then."

"Yes," he pressed kissed to the other's pale, shaking knuckles, squeezing cold fingers tightly in his warm ones, "together."

~====o)0(o====~

Into the silence, in some parts awkward and embarrassed and in others downright furious, Lars repeated his question.

"How is your wife doing, Luddy? Monique, isn't it? And don't you have a kid? How are they?"

"You know perfectly well how they are."

"Ri~ight. Last year, wasn't it? August sometime?"

"May."

"Really? I thought it was shorter than that. How time flies."

"It does. How is Mathias?" Ludwig kept himself from retching at the name; though his stomach did its level best to evict his lunch.

"He took a bullet that would have killed a lesser man," the Dutchman laughed merrily while the rest of the introductory party looked on in surprise.

"And?"

Lars smiled wickedly, a diamond stud showing in his left canine,

"He was a lesser man."

"I can't say I'm not glad for it," Ludwig said, his voice steady, "though I wish I could have pulled the trigger myself."

"Okay," Elizaveta interrupted, waving her hands to attract their attention, "at this point in the conversation I'm going to assume you two know each other. Who, what, when, where and why?"

"Oh, we're old friends, aren't we, Luddy?" Lars threw an arm about the German's shoulders, grinning when it didn't go all the way around. Leaning up he whispered slickly in Ludwig's ear,

"_I can't believe how easily you went down. I guess all this is just for show, hey?_" he flicked a muscled arm. The bodyguard stood tall, rigid and unusually pale. When he exhaled, the breath shook, and he shrugged the arm off,

"Don't touch me."

"Right, Beast, Feli, go get some punch," Antonia ordered, "put something in it while you're there, ok?"

"_Si_, Antonia!" the Italian happily scuttled off to find some booze, Ludwig following after him on an invisible leash. The Spanish woman turned to her guest, her face as warm and friendly as a mellow summer's day.

"Leave him be, van Dyk," she said, the tinkle of ice-crystals frosting her voice.

"Whatever you say, Toni," Lars's smile was razor sharp, and he sauntered off to find the punchbowl.

The next two guest were people the Spanish woman didn't know personally, though she knew the taller from surveillance photographs,

"Evening, miss, you must be Antonia," he said, graciously kissing her hand, "congratulations on your engagement. I'm Alfred F Jones," he motioned to Arthur, "and this is my boyfriend, James Kirk."

"Please, call me Jamie," Arthur giggled, blushing a little, "I'm so happy for you two. We simply must talk flowers later!"

"Of course," she laughed, and shaking both their hands, sent them on their way. A muffled snort issued from besides her and she looked to Lovino, who was quite obviously sulking; his arms were folded and his shoulders were hunched, a childish pout wetting his lips.

"Oh, Lovi! What's wrong_, mi tomatito_?" she cooed, wrapping her arms around his waist while he tried to evade her.

"I don't like the way everyone keeps kissing you," he muttered darkly, "you're my fiancé, not theirs."

"Oh, _querido_," she laughed, "I know for a fact that agent Jones is as bent as a three-Euro coin!"

"And the other guy? What about him, is he gay too? Because you seem to know an awful lot of gay people."

"Lars? He's married with kids now. Two little girls."

~====o)0(o====~

Feliciano really shouldn't have had any of the punch, especially after he spiked it with a bottle of limoncello. Especially, especially after Francis had already added the best part of a bottle of gin and Nono Roma had, prior to that, slipped in a hip-flask of vodka, and Gilbert had sneaked in what he would call a 'generous tot' (see: hallucinogenic quantity) of Absinthe that he had brought in bologna and had been saving for a special occasion.

Ludwig, who had noted the toxic fumes of alcohol sizzling from the huge glass bowl – really, what had Antonia expected to happen? – chose not to partake of the poisonous looking liquid.

The Italian, on the other hand, who had a much higher tolerance for alcohol that most people suspected, poured himself a glass and drank about half of it before realising that something was amiss.

"Ve~ that's a bit strong!" he said as the buzz began simmering in his brain like a swarm of bees, lifting him from the floor, he left the cup unfinished next to the bowl and walked over to a chair against the wall and sat down. He looked up at Ludwig, who was standing beside him, and motioned at the seat to his left,

"Sittown, Beats," he giggled. Once the German complied, he leant against the bodyguards upper arm, some, tracing the brace on his forearm.

"You're drunk Herr Vargas."

"Idunwanna hearny more bout hair Vargas, Beats, Ahwanchoo tcallme Fellatio."

"Alright, Feliciano."

"Grazienyour very pretty. Ahopeyouno't," he continued. Ludwig looked at his employer dubiously, a little – strike that, a lot – surprised. Had Feliciano Vargas just called him _pretty_? The man really must be drunk. What was _in_ that drink?

"It occurs to me, Feliciano, that you have the same sexual preference as my brother."

"Anasat?"

"Drainpipes," Ludwig said matter-of-factly, and Gilbert, who had been waltzing past with Elizaveta paused to snap indignantly at his little brother,

"Oh, come _on_, Lutz! That was _one_ time, I was-n't _entirely_ sober a~nd – Ach! You're never going to let me live that down. Not awesome!" he dragged his girlfriend back into the dancing masses.

"No, I'm not," Ludwig smiled quietly to himself, and the little Italian on his shoulder smiled blearily.

"Youvame~een sinsvhumer," he giggled tipsily.

"_Ja,_ I do."

"Wernot frens're we?" he asked.

"No, we aren't."

"Kweebe frens?" Ludwig considered this slurred question carefully, and although it went against everything that he was sure a working relationship ought to be, looking down at the hopeful, drink-flushed face he nodded slowly.

"_Ja_. We can be friends, I guess."

"_Bene-bene_. Ineeta thrupnow," Feli said, leaning forwards and prompting his new friend to escort him to the men's restroom.

~====o)0(o====~

Arthur didn't know exactly what was in that punchbowl, but he knew that there was a lot of it, and it would likely give him either alcohol poisoning or a motherfucker of a hang-over. Gleefully, because right now all he really needed was a drink of the same rigidity as an I-beam and something soft to pass out on. Preferably the soft skin of a certain American youth, sprawled naked and panting beneath him.

Fuck it, he wasn't near drunk enough for this, he thought, scooping a third glass and slugging it back with much aplomb. The room was starting to swim now, and he was beginning to feel a little light headed. He glanced balefully to where his partner in law was chatting idly with someone, no doubt gathering valuable information. Smarmy little fuck.

Sexy little fuck, too.

With slightly shuffling footsteps, Arthur fumbled his way across the room before stumbling into Alfred, arms creeping about his waist like ivy,

"Alfie~!" shit, he had underestimated that punch, "I'm drunk, Alfie. Take me home?" the last three words were not only very badly slurred, but there was a heavy-lidded purr along with it.

Alfred looked concernedly at his fellow-spy. He truly did look drunk enough to make a pass at a statue, and yet those glazed eyes were focused on him with such smouldering determination that it was starting to make him blush.

"Excuse me, I should take him home now, he's obviously had too much punch," he apologised to his conversation partner, and went to find Antonia and apologise. It was a pity because they hadn't really gotten much work done.

"Is he alright?" the woman asked concernedly, shooting the Englishman a worried look; worried for her own health and safety, because he looked like he might pose a threat to it.

"Oh, he's always like this when he's drunk," the American smiled, hoping that his companion wasn't going to yell at him for that later.

"You dun know me!" Arthur muttered violently, "'M frum the United bloody Kindom an I kin hild my locker better'n anyvyou!"

Giving the woman an apologetic grimace he towed the plastered Brit to their hostess while he called out desperately;

"Duzanyun know? Am I cathlick'r Prote'sant? Gah, Ahneven know!"

"I'm sorry to leave your party early, Antonia," Alfred put on his most winning smile, "I hope you and Lovino are very happy together, but Jamie and I need to leave, I'm afraid someone's spiked your punch and I should get him home."

"That's alright, Alfred, I'm sure we'll see each other again soon," she smiled, turning back to Lovino.

~====o)0(o====~

Ludwig hated it when people where sick. He had always endeavoured not to get sick, or to let others get sick. It was for that reason that he was gently chastising his newfound friend, holding his hair back from his face as the rainbow, unhappy with being tasted, fought its way back up his trachea.

"Ve~ that tastes like shit," Feli muttered, wiping his mouth on the toilet paper that his bodyguard-cum-friend held out to him.

Slowly, and a lot more sober than he had been a while ago, he stood up and went to rinse out his mouth until it tasted of nothing but mouth.

"You should have known better than to drink that punch," Ludwig said calmly, handing Feli a mint.

"Hey, you didn't call me Herr Vargas that time!" the little Italian was unreasonably happy about that, but he was still a little drunk.

"We are . . . Friends, now, Feliciano."

"Ve~! Really? That's wonderful!"

"Well, isn't that just adorable. Are you two going to wear matching panties now?" Lars leered from where he was leaning nonchalantly against the door of the restroom.

"Lars, get out."

The Dutchman clucked his tongue reproachfully, "Luddy, is that any way to talk to an old friend?"

"We aren't friends."

"After all I've done for you? Even taking that lifeless bitch off your hands?" Ludwig paled visibly, and his hands were shaking.

"Don't talk about her like that."

"Aw, did you _like_ Monique? Did you _love_ her?"

"Monika."

"Ve~! Beast, did he steal your wife?" Feli asked nervously, tugging at Ludwig's arm. He would have tugged at his sleeve, but he still wasn't sure if Beast was just painted black or not.

"Desecrated," he coughed out, "and made me watch."

"Mi Dio!" Feli gasped, slapping his hand over his mouth. He turned to the smirking blonde at the door,

"_Amico_, I would be much obliged if you would leave this party."

"Are you going to _make_ me?" Lars asked teasingly.

"_Nein_, but I will. I've been waiting for an excuse," Ludwig stepped forwards, left hand resting on the gun that Antonia had permitted him to carry openly at his hip. The Dutchman curled his lip in derision.

"You wouldn't."

Ludwig drew the gun and cocked it, his finger resting steadily on the trigger, "Yes, I would."

"Tcha," Lars snorted and turned to leave, "Alright, I'm going to leave. I wouldn't want to give you the satisfaction of revenge. Besides, who would look after my little girls when I'm gone? Their mom can't do it all by herself." He didn't need to look back to know his words had crippled the other blond, he could hear the sound; part wounded animal, part winded man. He could hear the clatter of the gun falling to the floor. Those sounds were satisfaction.

"Ve~ Ludwig, let's go to the church," Feli said quietly, his hand resting on the bodyguard's shoulder, "I need to pray. We both do."

Despite his utter disbelief in any religious system, the German nodded dumbly.

~====o)0(o====~

"You bloody wanker!" Arthur raved as Alfred attempted to wrestle some water down his throat. He couldn't imagine what had been in that punch, but it couldn't have been anything less than sixty percent proof.

"You and you're damn American ways, you fucking Yank! You're turning my investigation to shit!"

"I still fail to see how I could possibly be doing that when you are the one who called us away from an investigation because you're so blind fucking drunk that you started hitting on me," somehow the American still sounded like he was making mild an chit-chat with a PTA mom.

"I'm not thirty, Alfred," Arthur slurred, suddenly losing all his fire, "'M not thirty. I'm forty –three. I'm old~er than you by almost twenty years!"

"I hardly see what your problem is, man. So you're a little old for a field agent," he shrugged, that age gap didn't bother him in the slightest.

"I was a field agent! I was a brilliant field agent. They said I was the James Bond of the MI6! But now I'm all washed up and you and your American ways are storming in here, making me out to be some kind of paedophile with your youth, and your gorgeous arse – I saw you walking around in your towel after the shower, all naked and wet - and your lush body and that fucking texy Sexas accent of yours! You're driving me crazy!"

"Uh, thanks, I think," Alfred said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"I wasn't complimenting you, you bastard; you're ruining my life!"

"Is it too much for an old man to ask you to take advantage of him while he's inebri- inedebri- inedib- plastered?"

"Goodnight, Arthur," Alfred said, "drink you water."

"Bollocks," the Brit muttered drowsily, slipping into the sandman's realms, "worth a shot, spose."

~====o)0(o====~

Feliciano sat bent over his clasped hands in the front pew of the church, mumbling in Italian and Latin for redemption and salvation, and several desperate apologies for his drunken state.

Ludwig sat hunched too, even though he didn't much care for it, it seemed appropriate. However, instead of watching the floor like his employer, he stared at the giant depiction of Christ on the cross before him. Would Christ hear his prayer? He doubted it.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flickering movement, and tensed. Who or what was moving about the ceiling corners of a church in the dead of night. Not good.

"He- Feliciano," he muttered quietly.

"Ve~ Why must you always interrupt my communications with the Lord?" the Italian asked crossly, looking up with genuine anger in his eyes.

"There's someone here," Ludwig began to explain, but the second that those words left his lips, then Feli stood up, spreading his arms, he turned in the direction that the bodyguard had indicated with his head,

"Ve~ Welcome friend!" the faint zipping flutter of a blade being thrown stained the air. Feli looked surprisedly up at the ornately moulded ceiling, the breath knocked out of him, Ludwig on top of him from where he had knocked his employer to the ground.

Ludwig drew his gun, his eyes roving ceaselessly for the would be assassin, there, he glimpsed a flicker of movement in the shadows, and in the same instant as another bullet let fly, the German fired his gun.

It wasn't until the echoes of gunfire had faded and the dead man's blood was pooling darkly in the soft golden light of the alter candles that Ludwig realised that Feliciano was crying quietly, repeating the same words over and over again,

"No, this is a house of God, please stop." Hushing him, the German picked up the little Italian and carried him out and to the motorbike, on which they had been riding double, not knowing that his employer was now stone-cold sober.

~====o)0(o====~

It was very late now, Ludwig didn't even want to think about the time, he didn't want to think, but he just couldn't stop. Thoughts swirled in his head, pressing down on his chest, holding in his breath. Lars had been right there. Right there. He could have; one twitch of the finger and the man would have been dead. But he didn't. He had saved his bullet for an unnamed, inoffensive man in a church.

But he had done his job. That was what was important. He had done his job and he shouldn't be as hung up about it as he was. But he was. And Lars was married? With two daughters. Two pretty little daughters. Ludwig clenched his fists together until his could see his own knuckles glowing white in the gloom.

There was a creek, and he froze. Soft footsteps padded towards his bed and the bed frame protested as someone light sat down on the edge of the mattress and stole under the covers, lying very still just besides him.

"Herr- Feliciano?" he asked, voice hoarse in the darkness.

"_Si. Mi dispiace_. I couldn't sleep." A pause, "Could I stay here?"

Another pause.

"_Ja_."

Together they lay there, breathing in sequence and not touching, simply glad of a human being willing to share their company. Ludwig was lost in his thoughts of _if_ and regrets and missed memories that Lars would get to have that he wouldn't.

Feliciano lay with tears flowing soundlessly down his cheeks, thinking bitterly that this was not quite what he meant when he said that he wanted to share this man's bed.

~====o)0(o====~

_In der Tiefe ist es einsam  
>Und so manche Zähre fließt<br>Und so kommt es dass das Wasser  
>in den Meeren salzig ist<em>

~====o)0(o====~

"**Nooo~, you can't do that! Even if you give them a happily ever after they're going to have flashbacks and PTSD for the rest of their lives!" – woodbyne**

**Fuck authors notes, I have a headache. This is twice as long as the last chapter, enjoy. 4667 words. **_Je Suis Qui Je Suis_** chapter 2 will be up as soon as humanly possible, but it is my dad's birthday on Monday, so I don't think I can write with a clean conscience. **

**Reviews make me SO effing happy that I scream, and then my sister yells at me for screaming. **

**In order to further irritate the eleven year old who keeps kicking me off the computer, send me reviews. 100th person gets a one-shot of their choice, IF you signed in.**

**Advance thankies~! **

**~RutheLa **


	11. Into The Fire

**Poptabprincess, I'm shamefully pleased to have taken your reviewginity. **

**Dials number. "Hello?"  
>"The new chapter is up."<br>"Oh my **_**GAWD**_**! Finally!"  
>"I, Oh-o-" *receiver is slammed down*"-kay. And what do you <strong>_**mean**_** 'Finally!'?" **

**Tokkalover, woodbyne, Oreocooky, JustAmel, Tala, Kisa2012, Pie1313, Skullover, Blue Rai, ButterflyLily, ichiman, Princess-Canada, 0m3ga's Z3r0, Invisible Randomer, KajiMori, ShadowDragonMistress, Poptabprincess, crownedclown3293, Lightbeauty; I WILL BEAR ALL OF YOUR CHILDREN. **

**THINGS THAT NEED ADDRESSING:  
>One: The age gaps. I'm trying to keep this as close to the country-cannon as possible, but with the ages that I've chosen, that can be impossible. At least, impossible without inducing gerontophilia. Youngest to oldest: Feli (22), Mattie (23), Alfred (24), Lovino (26), Ludwig (28), Antonia (29), Francis (29), Elizaveta (30), Gilbert (32), Arthur (43), Nono Roma (67). I love me an age gap.<br>Texy Sexas, typo or intentional? Utterly intentional. I actually said that once, and I couldn't resist slipping it in here.  
>That paragraph bout the motorbike wasn't actually meant to sound nearly as sexual as it did. Well. I hope you all liked the accidental innuendo anyway.<br>Who's the dude who died in the church? He's some arb ninja that I conjured up from my brain.**

**Princess-Canada, I'm going to take you up on that offer someday soon! **

~====o)0(o====~

Arthur lay, paralysed under his blankets by the blank pain in his head and all over, which spiked unbearably every time he made use of his respiratory system. He couldn't even bring himself to turn off the lamp besides him, despite how much pain it was causing him.

"Why won't the light just shut up?" he moaned childishly. Alfred opened the door with a grin, remarkably awake, and far too happy for the Englishman's tastes.

"The dead arise! How're you feelin', party animal?"

"I swear I'm never going to drink again." Alfred laughed heartily, making the elder man flinch and then wince, and then flinch because he winced.

"_Sure_ you aren't. C'mon, up and at 'em. Let's get you fed and watered. We have a big day ahead of us!"

"I'd rather cut off my own- _Cunt_!" the Englishman yelled groggily as the American removed him bodily from his bed.

"Really? Huh. And there was me thinking you were a dude."

"Me, too," Arthur moaned dizzily as he was walked to the bathroom. He would have protested and or flushed beet red, but he seeing as how he was currently ready to hurl, he refrained from doing either in favour of being gripped by walk-induced _mal de mer_.

~====o)0(o====~

"_Bruder_! You put _what_ in the punch?" Ludwig was beside himself with righteous indignation.

"Eh, it was just a little green fairy," Gilbert shrugged, sitting at a marble countertop in the kitchen, watching Lovino make churros with Antonia. The two were giggling and swearing as if they hadn't noticed the other three enter the room. Which in all fairness, they probably hadn't.

"_Per favore_, _stai zitto_," Felciano moaned from the scrubbed wooden dining table on the other side of the counter. There was a cup off strong black coffee a few millimetres from his nose that was gathering a cloak of chilly oil slick colours about itself.

"Green fairy? _Absinthe_? Gilbert, you could have killed someone!"

"Ach, if anyone died drinking that punch then they fucking fail at life anyway and therefore do not deserve to live."

"Gilbert," Elizaveta chirped, practically skipping down the staircase, which was indeed a sight to behold in her current eight-months-preggers state, "Antonia has been an utter angel and organised a doctor's appointment for me and Daniel. Could you be a babe and come with me?"

Gilbert looked at Lovino who was currently on the receiving end of a handful of flour and sugar to the face. Antonia, who was not as oblivious to the presence of soft voices in the next room as her husband-to-be looked at Gil, winked and nodded, shooing him away playfully while the Italian coughed out a laugh and powdered grain product.

"Sure, babe," his pointed grin lit his eyes ablaze, and her face glowed in the heat. Snatching his car keys off the hallstand he held out his arm, which Elizaveta took and laughed. Together they walked out of the door, smiling a little like teenagers going to prom and Ludwig felt his heartstrings drag mercilessly at the familiar sight.

With a slight pursing of his lips, he looked at the semi-conscious Italian by his side, who was currently drooling on the tabletop. Resting his chin in the cup of his palm, fingers brushing his lower lip, the German tossed a sidelong glance at his new _friend._

"So, Feliciano. What are you going to do today?"

"Whyja call me Feli?" he mumbled into the hardwood with which he was attempting to merge; with a surprising degree of success.

"Because," Ludwig really couldn't _believe_ that he had to explain this again, "you asked me to last night. Though technically you asked me to call you _fellatio_, I can only assume that you meant Feliciano."

"Ve~? Thas great. Wassa quesshon again?" It really was difficult to understand him when his face was smooshed against the table like a piece of particularly well-squished road kill.

"What are you going to do today?" he repeated wearily.

"Mgna _die_," the Italian muttered, flopping his head over so that it landed in a puddle of his own saliva and letting out a high, drawn-out whine of protestation at the sensation.

_Well_, Ludwig thought drily, _today is going to be _**productive**.

~====o)0(o====~

"_Psst_," a voice hissed through a crack in the office door, "Hey, kid. Over here."

Matthew looked up, was someone talking to him? Couldn't be. He went back to his accounts.

"Hey, hey! Kid, over here!" the voice was louder this time, and when the Canadian looked up, there was a tuft of spiky blonde hair sticking through the frosted glass door, and a shadow on the other side of it.

"The office is open, you can come in, but there isn't anybody here but me so you'll have to wait."

"Nah, that's fine, kid. It was you that I wanted to talk to, anyways." The man walked in, a white and blue scarf draped loosely about his neck, his hands shoved into the pockets of his crumpled jeans. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed.

"What did you want to talk about?" Matthew asked, mildly surprised. It wasn't very often that anyone wanted to speak to him specifically, let alone sought him out to do so.

"You see, kid,"

"Matthew."

"Right, Max,"

"Matthew."

"That's what I said," he gave the younger man a reproachful look, "anyway, Max, a friend of mine gave me something, and I'm not really one for re-gifting, but the dude doesn't know me at all, and I figured someone could make better use of it than I can." So saying he fished in his breast pocket and hooked out a small Ziploc bank-bag, the kind used for notes. It was full of fluffy, cream-coloured powder.

"China Cat," the man said, a sly grin pulling his at face unpleasantly. Matthew pushed his swivel chair away from the desk so hard and fast that it fell over, wheels paddling helplessly in the air.

"I don't know how you found that out, but I'm clean_, a la canona_. I have been for years. I don't want that shit. Get it off my desk."

"Really? Because a little birdie told me that you were _King Kong_, man. Had a real monkey on your back. Told me you were friends with Harry Jones."

"I said, _I quit_."

"Whatever you say, Maxy. I know how you want it," he flipped a card onto the papers Matthew had abandoned; "a baby is for life, not just for Christmas. Call me when you need more."

He got up and left, the door closed itself with a hiss like an angry puff adder.

Matthew watched the packet on his desk intently for a long time, weighing up, justifying and applying logic. Eventually, he scooped up the bindle and pocketed the Hero.

~====o)0(o====~

Gilbert tapped his foot in a staccato rhythm against the sensible grey linoleum of the waiting-room floor. It was mostly impatience that made him do it, but nerves could proudly claim that they too had a large say in this behaviour.

While her boyfriend jittered restlessly besides her, Elizaveta sat calmly, hands folded around her belly, exuding an air of utter contentment.

"Signora Beilschmidt?" a musical voice asked over the clean white intercom into the clean white room. Gilbert jumped to his feet, his stomach having strapped on its Irish dancing shoes and started up a jig on his colon the instant that he had heard the unknown Italian call his girlfriend _Mrs Beilschmidt_. With a queasy sense of delight, the German held out a hand to help her up from her seat.

"Honestly, Gil," she said mildly, hauling herself to her feet unaided, "I'm not fucking disabled; I can stand on my own damn feet, thank you!"

"Yeah, whatever, you whale. Who put you down as my missus?" he asked with feigned nonchalance, what would on any other person be a light blush staining his colourless skin as red as his eyes. He looked down at his hands, which were somehow knotting his fingers into themselves in a slightly nervous manner.

"Must have been Antonia," Elizaveta grumbled noncommittally, she had actually told Antonia to book her under that name. Maybe Gilbert would actually propose sober this time.

"It has a nice ring to it. Maybe we should get hitched."

A harsh laugh barked from her lips. Not quite what she had had in mind, but it would do in a pinch. Fortunately, this wasn't a pinch,

"Maybe," she smiled.

The examination room was cool and clean, with pale blue and yellow striped wallpaper and white linoleum flooring. The fluorescent strip-lights on the ceiling reflected mightily off the contrasting chrome and glass worktops, making Gil shield he sensitive eyes, holding out his other hand to a burly woman in a white coat. She was short, round and middle aged.

"Thanks for having us on such short notice," he said, but she brushed past him, ushering Elizaveta forwards and sitting her down,

"Sit down, _cara_," she said, fussing about the younger woman, making sure that her hair was comfortably out of the way, warning her about the temperature of the gel before squirting the blue substance onto her now exposed belly.

"Woof! I know it's supposed to be cold, but it gets me every time," she complained as the transducer was pressed to her skin and manoeuvred like a figure skater; trying to get a clearer image.

When the fuzzy image swam into view of a baby; fingers curled, eyes squinched shut; lips waiting to speak; legs tucked up under his chin; Gilbert froze, pride swelling in his chest a closing his throat like anaphylactic shock.

"That's my boy," he whispered, eyes locked on the screen, "Lizavet, that's our boy!" He crouched down to watch the black and white pixels as the doctor swivelled the device to show a different image.

"Isn't he awesome?" The proud father breathed, eyes wide, heedless of the searing light.

"Yes, Gil," Elizaveta smiled, her heart warming, "You are awesome."

The German waved a hand in her direction, "_Stille, Frau!_ I'm talking about our son here!"

Her smile only widened.

~====o)0(o====~

It was four o' clock in the afternoon and the cold prickle of an incoming storm rumbled in the dry air, clouds hanging heavy with electricity over the city. Gilbert and Elizaveta had long since come home, Gilbert swinging her about delightedly, planting firm kisses on her lips, his joy emanating through the room. Together they, Antonia and Lovino had gone to dicuss wedding plans. Well, Antonia and Elizaveta had dragged Lovino, and Gil was tagging along for the entertainment as well as in his professional capacity.

This left Feliciano at home to nurse the remnants of the worst hangover of his life. True to Ludwig's earlier prediction, today had been counterproductive. He had watched the Italian half-heartedly eat his muesli. He had held his hair while another riptide of nausea passed through him. He had then spent the better part of his day watching the slim man snore quietly on the plush ochre couch.

Ludwig had slipped out his reading glasses (a shameful necessity, though only when the printed word was involved, otherwise his eyes were just fine, thank you very much) and opened his favourite volume of Goethe's poetry, skipping the disheartening tale of the _Erlköning_ in favour of _Totentanz_, which was a little more light-hearted, though hardly what anyone would call cheerful.

"Ve~ Those glasses suit you," Feli mumbled sleepily into the couch, prompting the German to wonder if the Italian could see through his own eyelids.

"_Danke_," he said, plucking them from his face and folding them into his breast pocket. Feli lurched into a sitting position, still looking more than a little worse for wear,

"Come sit over here with me," he asked, messy hair making him seem even more child-like than ever before. With a heavily suppressed sigh, the larger man got up and moved to sit where his employer's head had previously been resting, only to have the Italian perform an impressively acrobatic flop-and-wriggled manoeuvre so that he could use the bodyguard's thigh as a pillow.

Ludwig was absolutely positive that this constituted as sexual harassment in not only Italy, but the rest of the European continent as well.

"Ve~ Ludwig, let's talk. We're friends now, we should talk," he sighed, sounding unusually somber, his honey-brown eyes looking up into the almost colourless and mildly irritated face of his employee.

"What should we talk about, Herr- Feliciano?" he asked resignedly.

"Let's talk about religion. You are a man of God, are you not?" If that question had been wearing a plaid Catholic-school skirt over a pair of boxer shorts, it couldn't have been more of a trap.

"Truthfully, Feliciano, I used to be. But it's been a long time since _die_ _kerk_ or _Herr_ _Gott_ held sway over my actions." The Italian considered that statement carefully, weighing up how much sympathy he could give to that statement given the man's circumstances while still remaining faithful to his own beliefs.

"_Mi_ _dispiace,_ was it because of your wife? Because I can assure you that everything has a reason, God would not have tested you if He didn't believe that you could-"

"Killing my wife, my daughter; watching what they did; that was my punishment for _failing_ his test. For not believing in the first place," he looked away, though it did not stop Feli looking at his troubled face. The lavender stains that mark slumber's absence seemed to ooze from the skin under his eyes, his sharp, angled brows pulling downwards in an expression of deep anguish, his already narrow lips pursing, straightening the line of their beautiful bow. Feliciano couldn't help but compare him to his brother. Whereas Gilbert was wild and rugged, his face a gorgeous mess of angles that would maim the careless few who thought it sensible to get close, Ludwig was sharp contradictions and complimentary softness. Gilbert in all his coarseness could have been roughly hewn from granite with an unwieldy chisel, but not his brother. Oh, no, not Ludwig. His facets were clean and edged, but smooth rather than jagged. He drew in a shuddering breath,

"I shouldn't be talking about this. I can't."

"You killed a man in a house of God, and you aren't sorry? You mean to tell me that you won't repent for this sin?"

"Would you ask forgiveness from something that does not exist? From someone who can't hear you?"

Feliciano sat up and stared, his mouth a little open, showing the pale inner flesh of his strawberry-sweet lips, his eyes a little white-rimmed, forehead creased quizzically.

"How can you say that when the Lord is present in all things? He gave you life!" It was hard for the German to understand that this almost irate person who sat twisted in a catlike pose was his laid back, occasionally creepy employer.

"And he took it away again, but I'm still here."

There was a silence. Feli reached out, holding the pale face between the flats of his palms. Slowly, he leant forward until his bronze forehead was pressed to the silver one before him, his eyes tightly shut.

"Then you must still have a purpose in this life. You shouldn't be so eager to leave it," Ludwig inhaled sharply, surprised by the insightfulness the Italian displayed. Thus proving to the world that Feliciano Vargas is not only a secret atmosphere-reading ninja, but is also not quite the herp-a-derp that most would think him.

"I would give up my memory of her if it meant I could see her again," the words slipped from his mouth without his permission. Ludwig closed his eyes so that he could not see the pity in Feliciano's.

Feliciano wished that he would open them so that he could see the compassion.

~====o)0(o====~

"_Arse_!" Arthur howled as he tripped once more, "fuck, bugger, arse, cunt, cock, wank, _shit_!" he cursed as he whacked his shins against the coffee table, knocking over an empty can of Pepsi cola, which he promptly fell on, surely bruising his ribs.

"You're kinda clumsy, ain'tcha?" Alfred remarked, popping the seal on a new can and tipping his head back to take a gulp. The Englishman stared transfixedly as the American's throat pulsed, swallowing the dark, sticky fizz.

"Shut it, ye great wazzock-faced pillock!" Arthur said, tearing his eyes away from the strangely lovely sight to see what he had fallen over, because it certainly wasn't the carpet this time, as much as he would have loved to blame it. This cry of outrage burst forth when his seeking eyes round a red white and blue Nike sneaker resting on its side in the middle of the floor, perfectly placed to trip the unwary. The laces seemed to have arranged themselves into a smug grin, which made Arthur think that maybe agent Jones had planned this.

"Right. Did you just say 'ye'? Translation, please, Mr Shakespeare, sir?" Alfred lowered his soda and raised an eyebrow, only to swear and duck as the still floor-bound Brit hurled his own shoe at his head.

"Never mind that, you stupid sod! What's that doing in the middle of the floor?"

"Uh, I left it there?" he looked nonplussed.

Arthur let out an animalistic little scream of frustration and slammed his fist into the carpet.

"And your feet are fucking huge, you fucking idiot!" he yelled. Alfred just smiled.

"You know what they say about guys with big feet?" he asked smoothly. Arthur raised an eyebrow sceptically,

"That they have small pricks?" he asked, wondering if his American comrade was mentally impaired or just very confused.

"Right!" Alfred grinned, "You know what else they say?"

"Oh, do tell," he said thinking; _well, __**this**__ should be good._

"_There's an exception to every rule," _he said with a wink, tossing a piece of bubble-gum into his mouth and flashing a Hollywood smile before leaving Arthur to his you-could-cook-breakfast-for-three-on-those-cheeks blush.

~====o)0(o====~

It was easy. So easy. Like riding a bike, falling off a log; it was something you never forgot. It was just as if the last three years had never happened. There had been no motion-picture rescue scene. There had been no Hollywood turn around. He was still living out of that dingy black-room of Carlos'. Only now, his Cuban friend seemed to live in Italy. Picking up that packet was like stepping into a rip in the space-time continuum. He could feel his shivers and shakes starting, the cramps, the twitches. He could even feel his mind reverting back to high-speak and crazy talk, sniffles dripping from his nose the same way onomatopoeia did from his restless lips.

The pharmacist hadn't even questioned him when he brought syringes and spoons, a length of rubber piping. Or did druggies just not live in Italy? Maybe not. Or maybe they didn't buy their shit from there. Either way. He stopped by a gas station and brought a giant lighter. It was clear plastic with red and blue fluid inside it. It made him nervous, because it reminded him of both then and now, and to be honest, the past and present were blurring a little as his mind anticipated the high that only the refined heroin known as China Cat could give. Or at least that's what he hoped that this was, rather than badly cut shit that would get him poisoned. Now that it was in his hands, he reasoned that he might as well, his brain having been hard-wired to want, to need the beautiful little packet, and to throw a raging cadenza when it wasn't given what it wanted,. What it needed.

And yet the lighter fluid gave him pause. It was red and blue. Red and blue. Oh say can you see, by the dawn's early light. Hands on our hearts we salute you your victory, Choke on your blue white and scarlet hypocrisy. It was the heroin, the Hero. That failed infallibility who neglected his duty.

He wouldn't even have minded being Lois Lane to his Superman.

But red was his, painted on his face come the season, his favourite ratty old hoodie was red. The one his boyfriend despaired of. Francis. Francis was a deep, seductive blue. His favourite blue silk shirt. The one Matthew had given him on their anniversary. Not the one that celebrated their relationship, that had been marked by a watch. _I want to spend forever with you. Time me?_

But forever came a lot faster when you didn't know how time was passing. Eternity came faster, too. But who cares about eternity when you have a blissful forever with the man who made life worth living again? Who loved you when it didn't feel like anyone else would.

He let himself in, keys jangling loudly.

"Francis? I'm home!" Please let him not be at home. I don't want to deal with that right now. The devil must have listened, because aside from the giant stuffed Polar Bear on the couch (Francis's gift to him on their first saviourversary) giving him the evil eye as though it knew what he was going to do, there wasn't a soul at home.

Tie it tight, cut off the flow of blood. No blood. No death. No pain. Well. Not a lot. And it was severely outweighed by the pleasure of the high.

Pressed the button down quickly, fully depressed. Orange flame leapt a little clump of powder rested on the spoon above the fire. The flame reflected twice in the clear glass of his spectacles and twice more in the indigo irises below his corneas.

With a shamelessly practised hand, he drew out the muddy elixir, desperate for the buzz. He tipped a shot's worth of cooking sherry over his arm and wiped it off again. Not that that would do much good, but it was the thought that counts, right?

As lovingly as he would have done Francis, he caressed the tender inside of his arm with the needle tip.

**GLOSSARY: **

_China Cat –_** A very refined and high-quality form of Heroin  
><strong>_ a la canona –_** Quitting cold turkey**_  
>King Kong <em>**– Someone with a very serious drug habit**_  
>A real monkey on your back –<em>** A drug habit, specifically heroin**_  
>Harry Jones <em>**- Heroin**_  
>a baby – <em>**A drug habit**_  
><em>_bindle –_** A packet of drugs**_  
>Hero –<em>** Heroin. Does anyone else see the irony? I know I do.  
><strong>_Wazzock faced Pillock_** – Turnip faced Idiot. One of my dad's favoutite sayings. (Everyone loves the crazy Welsh dude.)**

**Anyway, thank you all for your patience. Any mistakes are because I typed most of this on Woodbyne's computer (she made me read it as I went) and more the keys on this sodding keyboard have nothing on them. **

**I love you all, advance thankies for reviews, which I cherish!**

**~RutheLa**


	12. Love's Gonna Get You High

**To everyone who said "No, Mattie! Don't do it!"; You have my undying affection. **

**October 6****th**** has come and gone. You all know what that means! Shout from the rooftops; eighteen at last! This chapter is dedicated to my cough; because the second I even think about sitting down to write, it comes back.**

**Thank you everyone who reviewed! pie1313, poptabprincess, Cat'sdon'tcry, Tala, Blue Rai, NoirGrimoir, Skullover and skittleAcullen. **

**The title is a combination of Mika (Lollipop) and my little sister (No, don't explain it; I don't want to know, just replace the word 'Down'.)**

~====o)0(o====~

Skin was white. Blood was red. Veins were blue. Blue all around the red. Kept it safe.

Skin was white, blood was red, veins were blue.

Blood, skin and veins. Red, white and blue. The white was between the red and blue, keeping them apart. The hero. _That_ hero. That one and the other.

But the veins held the blood separate from the skin. The blue protected red from white.

Red, white and Blue.

White, blue and red.

Clickclickclick shiny manshoes. Blue eyes. Blue eyes, blueblueblue.

~====o)0(o====~

Gilbert looked at her with eyes that were trying their damnedest not to betray how very hurt he was feeling.

"I don't see why you have to go back to Hungary to have a damn baby!" he said, a sulky edge lining his voice.

"Because," Elizaveta explained, her patience wearing thin, "I _refuse_ to have my son born an Italian. No offence meant, Mr Vargas," she smiled briefly at the man, who was quite obviously not listening to the conversation that she and Gilbert were having; choosing instead to immerse himself in his sketchpad. Lovino, who she could also have apologised to, was pointedly ignoring the whole discussion in favour of sulking at his mobile phone, his thumbs ticking restlessly across the keys.

Ludwig sighed, this was going to be a blow-out of an argument. Or at least, that had been his assumption until Antonia had stepped in to smooth it out,

"Querida, this stress is bad for the baby," she soothed, "but Gilbert has a point, you shouldn't be travelling when you're this far along."

"Yes! What she said!" Gilbert interjected, happy to have a stable argument, "And, Lizavet, you've been through this whole thing alone. I'm not going to make you have our baby by yourself."

"Gilbert. Antonia. I. Do. Not. _Care_. I don't _care_ how far along I am, I don't _care_ if I have to give birth in the Hungarian backwoods in the company of wolves; I am not having my baby in this country, that is final. You _cannot_ stop me. "

The German looked to Antonia, "And to think that this is one of the things that attracted me to her in the first place," he looked back at his girlfriend, "Fine. Go, have your Hungarian Tarzan-baby on your own. See if I care. I'll call you a cab," he grumbled, pulling out a cell phone and dialling, speaking in rapid fire German.

Elizaveta looked at her Spanish companion as he walked away, "Where did he find a German cabbie in Italy?" she asked. The drug dealer grinned,

"You're going to need to get used to this, Elizaveta," she cooed, "You and Gil are part of the family, now. When a family member wants something, the family finds it. When they can't find it, they make it. You see?"

The Hungarian nodded slowly, "So if I wanted Daniel to get into a very exclusive private school . . ."

"Ay, Querida," Antonia laughed, "you have enough money to do that all by yourself, now, you don't need us!"

The two women smiled at each other, revelling in the scary, satisfactory sense of belonging that that 'us' had instilled.

~====o)0(o====~

"Arse," Arthur muttered quietly, beginning to despair of his computer skills. It didn't matter what he did, the new block that the Italians had introduced to their telephonic devices wouldn't crack. Sighing, he pulled off his headphones, utterly sick of the animatronic female voice in his ears saying "access denied" on loop, "Alfred, lad, would you mind taking look at that bloody firewall for me? I'm just going to make some tea. I'll bring you some fizz." He said, knowing that that would get the American interested.

"Gee, Artie! Thanks!" Sure enough, Alfred hopped laptops, his finger moving quickly over the keys, his eyes trained on the screen.

"Not my name," shaking his head, Arthur walked into the kitchen, pulling out a can of Pepsi, a carton of milk, a box of Twinnings , a mug and some sugar. Switching on the kettle, he busied himself with dropping a teabag into the mug, two spoons of sugar – he would have preferred cubes, but sometimes one had to make do – and tapped his fingers against the counter top until the kettle finished boiling. He added the hot water and put the sugar and the box of tea back in their places while he waited for his cuppa to brew. Flicking the spent bag into the bin, he added milk and put that away too. He was just stirring his tea when he felt someone very close behind him. Too close.

Alfred's hand covered his own, and Alfred's front was flush against his back. Alfred's teeth had also set themselves gently into his earlobe, and Arthur found himself unable to pull away. Partly because a larger body had pressed his own into the counter, almost bending him over.

"I hacked the firewall," the American murmured, hot breath tingling against the Briton's skin.

"Really? That was fast," Arthur was surprised at how calm he sounded, all things considered.

"Mmm," the tip of Alfred's nose travelled down to the crook of his neck and back again at a tremulously slow pace, "I got a degree from MIT before I joined the army."

"That's fascinating," _must not respond, must not respond, must not respond_. . .

"You know, I've always had a thing for older men," he purred, lips brushing against the corner of Arthur's jaw, and then just under it. If he hadn't been held up, his knees would have given out.

"I didn't know that, lad, thank you," he should be given a fucking Victoria Cross for bravery in the face of _extreme_ titillation.

"It makes me so hard when you call me that," Arthur's mouth fell open, his eyelids fluttered closed and his arms – braced against the countertop – trembled as the American's hips were ground against his arse, proving Alfred's husky twang to be correct. He _was_ hard. Hot, hard, willing and- Oh, _bollocks_.

The Englishman twisted out of his grasp and handed him the can of Pepsi,

"Here you are, lad," the name just slipped out, he couldn't help it. It was only a little bit intentional. But seeing the younger man shift and bite his lower lip, his glazed eyes narrowing was utterly fucking worth it.

Glad that years of soul-sucking English boarding school had taught him to have perfect posture no matter the circumstances, Arthur walked back to the lounge to continue monitoring the backlog of Italian phone-calls that had accumulated since the firewall had been put in place. Focussing on the chirpy, cheerful voice of Feliciano calling someone named Nicki about cleaning his room, he tried to remind his pants that, _no_, he was _not_ going camping and there was therefore no need for the tent that they were pitching.

~====o)0(o====~

Having kissed Elizaveta goodbye and folded her into a sleek taxi cab, Gilbert was now sitting morosely on Francis's empty desk, sipping fruit juice and wishing that he was allowed to drink beer on duty.

"Where is old Francy-pants, anyway?" he asked Antonia, who was lying on the designer couch against the far wall, her head in Lovino's lap.

"He and Mattie took the day off. They do that every once in a while. They're probably spending the day in bed," she sighed, "he sounded quite strained on the phone earlier, so I can only assume that they had started already. From what I hear, Mattie is quite good at giving head."

"The elephants do not wish to know that," the German glowered, gulping at his juice.

Ludwig raised an eyebrow and continued letting Feliciano win at checkers. The younger Italian looked up happily at his brother, "Ve~ Fratellone, it's lunch time. Is there anywhere good for pasta around here?" he asked.

"Hmmm, you're right, Feli," Antonia hummed, "normally Francis would show off and cook something. He is good. But if not then there's a lunch cart that comes around to all the offices. The man who runs it makes good food, shall we just get something from him?"

"That sounds decent," Lovino shrugged, stroking her hair. Ludwig nodded curtly and Feli cheered. Gilbert grunted noncommittally, hunching over on the desk like a large, malignant albino vulture.

As though summoned, there was a light knock on the door, "Lunch service!" a muffled voice called.

Antonia hopped up and opened the door only to be confronted by an angry looking Chinese man wielding a wok and a ladle.

Stepping back quickly, she stumbled in her heels, twisting her ankle and falling to the floor with a little scream.

Faster than it takes two rabbits to become twenty-five rabbits, four guns were aimed at the man in the doorway.

"What _is_ this?" Gilbert demanded furiously, "Weird Weapon Week? Why didn't anybody tell me? I would have brought my sabre!"

Ignoring his brother, Ludwig said, "What do you want, Yao?" at the exact same time as Lovino yelled,

"Get the fuck away from her, you slanty-eyed bastard!"

"Lovino!" both Feli and Antonia scolded, "that was very rude!" Ignoring the slim, rather feminine man in traditional Chinese dress pointed his ladle accusingly at Feliciano,

"He forced himself upon my woman, and you," he pointed at Ludwig, "helped him, aru."

Gilbert barked a laugh, "My brother? You have _got_ to be joking! He's so repressed that he's almost asexual!"

"Chigi~ Have you _seen_, Feliciano?" Lovi asked, "He couldn't force himself into a pair of pants, let alone a woman!"

"I assure you, Yao," Ludwig said calmly, "that while my brother is largely inaccurate, the elder Vargas is quite correct. I have never met a more cowardly, pathetic," Feli drooped with every adjective, "spineless, ditzy, non-violent man in all my life than Feliciano Vargas. And while he is presently the biggest French whore in this room, Sakura Honda reciprocated his advances."

"Does he always talk like that?" Feli hissed at Gil.

"Too much time spent translating Goethe as a child will do that to a person," the albino shrugged.

Wang Yao narrowed his eyes and stared at Ludwig, which gave Feli and Gil and the opportunity they needed to squeeze off a few shots just as Lovi dropped his gun and dove to cover Antonia, who picked up a carelessly placed hockey stick and hurled it at the retreating figure.

"I think I clipped him," Feli grinned, pointing at the blood splatter on the floor.

"I did, too. His arm, what about you?"

"The leg."

"He's not going far. Search party anyone?" Gilbert asked, a wicked light in his eyes.

"How about a house arrest?" Ludwig interjected, "It's obviously not safe for either of you to be out in public or private. We should wait in a safe location until we have more information regarding their movements."

"I agree," Lovi muttered, and Antonia nodded, looking a little pale.

"As long as there's beer," Gilbert shrugged.

"Ve~ It's going to be just like a sleepover!" Feli cheered happily, "We can have marshmallows and pasta and gelato and pillow fights!"

Ludwig regretted his suggestion already.

~====o)0(o====~

It was a luxurious taxi cab to be sure, more limousine than care, it had a TV, DVD player and a comprehensive collection of movies, most of them she recognised as being Gil's favourites. But even so, after 7 hours on the road – not including about two hours' worth of rest-stops, Elizaveta was bored.

She fiddled with the black glass partition between her and her driver, siding it up and down remotely. He looked at her, and beneath his shiny black cap and spiky blonde hair, cold blue eyes looked at her in the rear-view mirror, sending chills up her spine.

"Hi," she began, desperate for someone to talk to, but considering that maybe she should have just picked up her phone and called Gil, "I'm Elizaveta. Thank you for driving me. What's your name?"

The driver smiled pointedly, his cold eyes crinkling at the corners, but maintaining their chilly aura,

"It's my pleasure, Mrs Beilschmidt," he said, his voice accented similarly to Gilbert's, but definitely not the same.

"You can call me Lars."

~====o)0(o====~

Francis had come home the previous evening with the strings of the heavy paper bags that were dangling from his arms cutting into his fingers,

"Matthieu, Chou, I'm home," he called, dumping his keys in a leave-shaped ceramic bowl next to the door.

"Matthieu?" he called again. That was odd; he should be back from the gym by now. Shrugging as much as he could, considering his burden, he walked into the kitchen and dropped the groceries he had been carrying with a smash that told him that the olive oil he had brought would need replacing.

He didn't care.

"Matthieu!" he yelled, dropping to his knees next to the figure on the black and white chequered tiles.

Matt's legs were spread out as though he had slid slowly down from where he had been leaning against the counter. His one arm was bound with a tourniquet and was hanging limply at his side. His eyes were focused on the needle in his other hand, the one that was slowly oozing bile-brown liquid over his pale, trembling knuckles.

"Matthieu, _mon amour_, look at me, _s'il vous plait_!" Francis begged, holding the other man's face between his hands, his eyes starting to burn, "Please, please, please. Look at me. Say something!"

Matthew looked up, his eyes surprisingly focused and clear, his pupils un-dilated, "Francis," he smiled, "you're home."

The Frenchman snatched the needle from his fingers tossing it in the sink, pulling the younger man into his arms, rocking him back and forth,

"Why, Matthieu, why did you do this? _Mon Dieu_. My God, why did you do this to yourself, Matthieu? Were you unhappy? _Chouchou_, you should have said so. _Mon Dieu. Mon Dieu_."

Matt pushed himself away from the comfort of his lover's chest, "Francis, what are you talking about?" he asked, lines of confusing cutting into his face.

"The heroin, Chou, why did you do it? I can make it better, I swear!" he said, panicked, his hands fluttering desperately over the other's arms and face.

"Francis Bonnefoy," Matthew said soberly, "You cannot possibly make this better. _Because_!" he added quickly seeing the other's face drop like a lead zeppelin, "Because there's nothing wrong. I'm not high."

"But the- the needle!"

"I didn't take it, look," he held out his arm for inspection. There was no pin-prink, no red, no smell of alcohol, though the arm was a little cold, so Francis undid the tourniquet and rolled down the sleeve.

"How- Why?" he asked, stunned.

"I wanted to. So much. Alfred and his fucking British cohort," he sighed, "he's going to ruin everything _again_. If I let him. But he can't take you. Only you can do that. And he can't take my self-respect. Only I can do that. He still scares the bejesus out of me, Francis. I just want him to go away and leave me alone. But I don't have to make it easy for him to terrify me, do I?"

"Non. Oh, Chou. Mon petit Chou," Francis muttered, peppering little kisses all over Matthew's face, "Mon Matthieu. No, he can't hurt you. He can't. You won't let him, I won't let him, I swear."

"You do too much for me, Francis. I can take care of this on my own," the Canadian sighed, smiling indulgently as the Frenchman kissed his clean hand.

"I know, Chouchou. But I'm here, so you don't have to."

"That's why I love you," he laughed, not realising that his hands were shaking until the other held them still.

"Je t'aime, aussi, mon Matthieu."

~====o)0(o====~

"What is name?" the man barked angrily, his English deteriorating along with his temper.

"Fuck. You." The restrained man spat at his feet, his dark hair dripping into his face.

"Nyet. Not me," he paused, "Do you like coke?"

Slightly taken aback, the bound man could only ask, "coke?"

"Da. Coca-cola, do you like?" he asked, picking up a bottle of cola from on top of the fridge.

"Uh- Si? I guess I-" Ivan snapped his fingers and Natalya shoved the man's head into the trough of water with her foot, waiting patiently for the Russian's signal. Taking his time, he shook the bottle of cola vigorously, walking right up to the rim of the trough before nodding to her. The Belarusian released the man who was barely given the opportunity to draw breath before Ivan popped the cap on the drink, aiming the fountain of caramel-flavoured fizz straight up the unfortunate's nose.

Once the spray petered out, the man's head hung by the fist in his hair, blood flowing from his nose as he sobbed.

"_Bene! Bene_! I'll tell you! I'll tell you what you want to know!"

"Good. Nicholas Puccini, tell, what is your name?" Ivan asked with a childlike smile.

Nicki just cried harder.

~====o)0(o====~

Just as he was falling asleep, a buzz cut through Gilbert's dream-time, and he slapped his bedside table lazily, not wanting to actually look for his phone. Finding it, he flipped it open and squinted at the bright screen.

_Jst arrvd. Miss U.  
>Luv, Elizaveta.<em>

The last thought he had before drifting off with a smile on his face was; "That's odd; she usually texts in longhand. And she's never signed her full name in a text before. Oh well; Pregnancy and all that shit."

Thus undisturbed, he spent the next two weeks under house arrest.

~====o)0(o====~

**I'm sorry that this has taken too long. I have my reasons WRITERS BLOCK mostly. An insane addiction to facebook Hetalia RP's is another. I think I actually stole a line or two in here from one of them. **

**Please don't yell at me for being late; please don't complain about pairings or OOCness in reviews. I did actually warn you about all that in the beginning. Thankies. Thank you to Woodbyne for posting because I capped my internet. (Kate: AGAIN!)**

**I love you, please review ^_^**

**~RutheLa**


	13. Cabin Fever

**Now announcing the wedding between myself, RutheLa, and Someperv. We'd be very happy if you would attend. Sorry, Woodsy, divorced and all ;P. Someperv (I get a little kick out of writing that)has fulfilled my dream of having someone say "Hey, I didn't realise that you wrote that, I like it!" Thank you, sweetie. Oh my gosh, people! Do your homework! Not that I ever did mine, but I don't want anyone getting shat on for reading this instead of working! **

**Review to chap 12: Nah, it's not Male!Spain. Nicki is a random OC who disposes of the corpses in Feli's room and who just got a whole lot less random. **

**KajiMori (Sorry! I forgot to thank you for your lovely review!), Catsdon'tcry, Jule Beilschmidt, Invisible Randomer, Stripes 93, skittleAcullen, Skullover, review for chapter 12, iholic (you have me rumbled. I do that on purpose), Tala, Someperv, Kiko33, ichiman, MacbethWannabe and VoidOfDoomAndCupcakes. You're beautiful, wonderful people and I love that you take the time to tell me what you think of my writing. **

**WARNING: Character death and your first glimpse of the dirty. **

**Shit just got real. **

~====o)0(o====~

_I've got Cabin Fever, it's burning in my brain.  
>I've got Cabin Fever, it's driving me insane.<br>We've got Cabin Fever, we're flipping out bandanas.  
>Been stuck at sea so long that we have simply gone bananas.<em>

~====o)0(o====~

Arthur only just restrained himself from throwing his expensive headset across the room, much to Alfred's amusement.

"Jesus Christ!" he yelled angrily, "if that fucking Italian makes one more fucking phone call to a pizzeria, I'm going to kill him myself!"

~====o)0(o====~

After two weeks of being under self-imposed house arrest, the members of the Vargas family and their immediate entourage, including the Beilschmidts, were going stir crazy. Cabin fever was spreading throughout the house.

In the two hours each day that he wasn't watching Feliciano like a pale bird of prey, Ludwig exercised obsessively, making use of Lovino's gym equipment and pool religiously.

Feliciano was constantly in the kitchen, making ridiculous quantities of ice cream, pasta and pizza. As he worked, he composed little ditties about the people in the house. Antonia's was cheerful and upbeat, and while Ludwig's was too, it was also a little offensive.

Lovino spent his time tending to his greenhouse full of tomatoes with Antonia. Together the two of them would vanish for hours, causing Gilbert no end of stress as he looked for them, only to find them chatting about the benefits of fertilizer and genetic modifications in their beloved plants.

Gilbert, when not screaming about looking for the happy couple, was either re-watching the _Pirates of the Caribbean _movies (of which he had the box set) or re-reading the few text messages that Elizaveta had sent him. There was even a picture of a small, wrinkled, squishy-looking thing over which the albino had shed a few tears in private. November 7th was a short entry in his diary;

_Dear Journal. _

_Today, my son, Daniel Héderváry, was born. I've never been happier. _

However, there was obvious tension between them. Everyone was becoming tense and snapping, familiarity working its devious magic and breeding contempt.

It was during a game of scrabble that things came to a peak; Feliciano had misspelt a word, Ludwig had sighed and corrected him and Lovino; having a short temper under the best of circumstances, hand flipped the board onto the floor yelling; "You idiot! Feliciano, are you fucking retarded?" before storming upstairs, leaving his brother in tears.

Later, in the bodyguard's room, which the little Italian had taken to inhabiting, sleeping in his bed and stealing his over-sized shirts on occasion, he had sniffled out,

"I know he doesn't mean it, but it still hurts. Ve~ I know I'm not as smart as _fratellone_, but I wish he wasn't so mean about it."

Unsure of how to react, it had been a long time since he had had to comfort someone and he was a little out of practise, Ludwig had put one arm about the smaller man's shoulders.

"Lovino is probably just . . . fed up with being cooped up. I think we all are," he said, sounding stiff even to himself. Feli leant into his side, sighing a little.

"Grazie, Ludwig."

The German felt his chest tighten a little, partly with guilt and partly because this relationship he had with his employer was blurring from professional to personal in a very serious way. They shared a bed, and the Italian often wore very little to sleep. He had caught himself on more than one occasion reaching across a table to wipe a smug of some kind of sauce from the young man's cheek, stopping himself just in time. Feliciano was constantly leaning on him, or lying on him, or touching him casually. It wasn't something g he had been used to before working here, but Ludwig was becoming used to a gentle hand on his arm, a sleepy face burrowing into his arm in to mornings. He even found himself straightening the younger man's collar or hair. On one, desperately regretted occasion, he had even ruffled his hair in a fond manner, leaving a faint blush on Feli's cheeks.

Despite the abrasion that his constant presence was causing, Ludwig was almost enjoying the close proximity. Laughter and chatter that he had previously found beyond irritating was now endearing. He listened instead of blocking it out and found himself engaging in conversation, picking up a few words of Italian as he did so. The Italian had even been, unwittingly, allowed the rare privilege of seeing him air guitar to _Die Toten Hosen_, one of the mellower bands he listened to.

A few days after the scrabble incident, the entire 'family' was gathered in one of the many sitting rooms peppered about Lovino's special home, Lovi and Antonia bickering gently about which movie they wanted to watch, and Ludwig taking some off-time to do a few push ups on the floor, right arm behind his back and next to his brother, Gilbert sitting cross-legged on his back and reading a newspaper. Feli had just come dancing into the room, a look of utter rapture on his face as he waved a cell phone,

"Ve~ Gil, shift up!" he smiled, folding himself into the curve of the younger German's lower back, "Guess what?" he asked once he was comfortably seated.

"_Was_?" Gilbert asked, barely glancing up from his paper, "steady movements, Lutz!" he smacked his brother on the back of the head, one of the few people who would do so.

Ignoring the grumble of the man he was sitting on, Feli continued happily, "I finally got a screened fuck! I'm going to get laid tonight!"

Ludwig felt something just under his ribs twist in a phantom facsimile of pain. Feli might not have noticed the slight falter in the rhythm of the blonde man's exercise, but his brother did, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder blade, only to have it shrugged off with an irritable grunt.

"Who is it?" Antonia asked, holding up her final options to Lovino, both of them Antonio Bandaras movies.

"Heracles Karpusi," Feli chirped happily, "he's supposed to be very good." That cheerful sound that had been growing on the German was now painfully annoying.

~====o)0(o====~

Arthur was just back from a walk and halfway up the stairs when the tiny, wrinkled mother of his landlord caught him by the arm,

"You friend, he make much sound. _Per favore_, less," she said unhappily. The Englishman nodded slowly, confused,

"Yes, alright. Thank you," he shrugged a little and continued up to the second-floor, where his rooms were. Sure enough, before he even reached the second floor landing, the Pointer Sister's famous hit was blaring at deafening volumes from apartment number 3a.

Unlocking the door and wandering through the house, he stopped at Alfred's room, where the noise was, if possible, even louder.

"Alfred!" he called, knocking heavily on the door, "_Alfred_!"

"**ALFRED!**" he hollered, thumping his fist into the wood to no effect.

Angrily, he jimmied the door handle, only to find it open. He was about to storm in and shake some sense into the idiotic boy when he stopped, eyes wide.

~====o)0(o====~

Yao hissed as Toris dug in his arm with a pair of tongs, searching out the bullet that had stayed. The second shot had only grazed his thigh, and there was already a bandage on that. The arm was more serious though.

Sitting impassively in the corner of the room, Ivan watched his friend have his interior explored harshly by the Lithuanian surgeon.

Equally impassive were Sakura and her brother, who stood side-by side at the door. Sakura had traded in her harsh make up and punk clothing for a simple black business suit.

"The German said that you accepted the Italian," Yao said, glaring at his fiancé.

"Untruth," she said sharply.

"I know when I'm being lied to, aru."

"Apparently not," Kiku said quietly, his voice soft, yet razor sharp in the tense atmosphere.

"Or deal is off, Honda," the Chinese man said angrily, "I will not agree to marry a whore."

Without so much as blinking, the Japanese man pulled an ornate handgun from the pocket of his blazer and fired two shots into his associate's head, splattering the surgeon, who had just extracted one bullet, with blood, bone and brains. He turned to Toris,

"Fetch those," he ordered before facing Ivan, "Is our agreement still in place, Braginsky-san?"

The Russian smiled,

"Da."

~====o)0(o====~

There are places in the Sahara desert so arid and barren that no rain has fallen in over forty years. Not even these pockets of hell on earth could possibly compete with the desiccated heat of Arthur Kirkland's mouth as he stared, bug-eyed and slack-jawed at the spectacle of Alfred's room. Or, more specifically, Alfred himself.

The man was kneeling the centre of his room, his shirt discarded on the bed, and his jeans and underwear pushed hastily down his thighs. His spectacles sat askew on the tip of his nose, his lips were wet and bitten, and eyes clenched shut to be entertained by internal visions of ecstasy. As the Englishman watched, a bead of sweat cut a glistening path down from his shoulder across the golden skin of Alfred's chest to the washboard of his stomach and further, only to be caught in the golden treasure trail just below his navel.

Arthur couldn't help it, having come this far, his eyes just couldn't stop, and they dropped even farther south. The American's large, clumsy hand was curled about a proud erection, jerky arm movements lubricated precum pulled him closer to the edge.

Arthur tried desperately to swallow as he watched the tendons of Alfred's arm stand out, his hips buck pleadingly into his fist. He could almost see the blood pulsing beneath the flushed skin of the other's cock and he could certainly see opaque semen dripping from the head. Suddenly his dry mouth was watering.

The American's spine arched, his arm freezing, his glasses toppling to the floor, and the Englishman watched with an accompanying jolt of lust as he cried out his orgasm.

He thanked his lucky stars that he could read lips.

His trembling legs moving of their own accord, Arthur walked around the prone figure on the floor and to the CD player, hitting pause. Alfred whirled around, eyes narrowed with strain, chest rising and falling heavily, a confused grimace on his face, which the Brit found utterly edible.

"Knock much, Artie?" he panted.

"I did," Arthur said trying to burn this dirty picture into his mind forever, "repeatedly."

The American nodded, still catching his breath. The MI6 agent took a moment to fiddle with the volume control on the machine before hitting play, letting the words "_I'm so excited and I just can't hide it and I know, I know, I know I want you, want you!" _fill the room with utter disregard for the circumstances. But at a more reasonable volume.

Without another word, Arthur walked out of the room, pausing at the door to remark,

"It's nice to know that you use my full name."

Alfred blushed a little, looking down at his slick, soiled hand and then back up at the now closed door through which that cock-tease Englishman had come and gone.

"Am I being too subtle?" he asked himself incredulously.

~====o)0(o====~

This wasn't the most difficult thing Ludwig had ever had to do, but for some reason it was definitely in the top five.

It was because the stupid Italian refused to hire anyone else. It was because he had to be guarded at all times. It was because he was worried about him. It was because Feliciano had slept in his bed. It was because tonight Feli had chosen a man to take to his bed.

With a sickened jolt, he realised exactly why he didn't like this. Why he hated it with more loathing then he had thought he possessed. He hated this for all the reasons he shouldn't.

It was because, Ludwig thought, white knuckled and clench-toothed; _he_ wanted to be the one who was making the little Italian scream like that. He wanted Feliciano to beg _him_ for harder, for faster and for more. He wanted those slim bronze legs wrapped around _his_ waist; he wanted those manicured fingernails digging into _his _back. He wanted _his_ name on those lips.

A draw out grunt of frustration forced its way through Ludwig's locked jaw and he slammed his head into the wall, hoping to rid it of those thoughts. This was thoroughly inappropriate. Feliciano was his boss. His employer. To think of him as anything more than a cheery, sometimes scary imbecile was borderline sacrilege. In fact it was sacrilege, and it should offend his sensibilities in more ways than he could possibly count.

But it didn't. In fact, it might have been a slightly painful thought given the circumstances and his background. A curious one, given that he had never really even been interested in men before this serendipitous Italian. But the idea of having Feliciano Vargas as a lover was oddly pleasant.

A particularly strident scream made that same phantom pain twist in the German's ribs. How he hated the night time.

~====o)0(o====~

Francis lay on Matthew's chest, his chin resting on his arm, one hand idly tracing imaginary swirls over his lover's skin, caressing a bruise, ghosting his fingers over the dip of muscle and the curve of bone.

"_Mon coeur_," the Frenchman murmured, lifting his clear blue eyes to the indigo irises of his human cushion, "Where did you get the drugs?" he asked softly.

Matt raised a hand to cup the other's cheek, his thumb stroking the rough golden perma-stubble on his chin.

"I don't know. I would tell you if I did. Some guy came into Antonia's office and gave it to me."

Francis nodded into the hand, "You wouldn't lie to me." It wasn't a question.

"I know it sounds strange, but I really don't know. I can't even remember what he looked like. It's like I just slipped back to . . . to the way I was. You know?"

"_Oui, cher_, I know," and he did. The second he had been given the opportunity to think that way again, drugs or no, his mind had reverted to his old way of thinking, focused solely on his next hit.

"But," there was a brightness to the Canadian's tone, "there was a card. He left me a card, in case I wanted more," he shuddered, "shoo, Francis," he pecked his lips, "I need to find my jacket."

Reluctantly, the older man rolled from between his legs, and sat up, "Whomever he is, he's ruining my evening," he grumbled as Matthew got out of bed, walking to the next room without bothering to cover himself. Francis paused, leaning back to admire the view of his lover's retreating figure, "but then again, perhaps not."

"_Amour_, stop checking me out and take a look at this," the younger man called from the next room. With a sigh, Francis got up and wandered out.

"I hope you found it, because otherwise we haven't had sex and you are putting unnecessary strain on my old bones," he said, stretching provocatively.

"You're twenty-nine, Francis, that's hardly old."

"Older than you, chouchou."

"You know I don't care, now will you _please_ look at this?" Matthew said exasperatedly, waving the small piece of card at his lover. Francis took it, and his face darkened as he read the name above the number:

_Lars van Dyk._

~====o)0(o====~

"That was, without a doubt, the worst sex, I have ever had in my _life_," Feliciano said bluntly, spooning yoghurt over his muesli and fruit salad, "too selfish, to fast, too _small_."

Ludwig stared at the back of his employer's head in blatant disbelief; he had been forced to stay up all night in emotional turmoil, on an involuntary voyage of self discovery, so the little slut could have _bad sex_?

"Perhaps, Herr Vargas," he said curtly, unaware of his regression, "next time you should ask for customer reviews before you make your _purchase_."

Feli turned to look at Ludwig, confusion written plainly on his open face.

"Ve~ Lutz," he sometimes slipped into the nickname, "what's wrong? You called me Mr Vargas again."

"Nothing is wrong, Herr Vargas," his cool tone still lacking the familiarity it had achieved over the past weeks. Feliciano frowned. He was quite aware that something was obviously wrong, but he wasn't going to push it. He was probably just grumpy at being kept up all night because he wasn't getting any.

Feli shrugged and went back to his muesli. He would have much preferred to have Ludwig in his bed rather than Heracles, who hadn't really been that bad, he supposed. But neither of them had been focused on the person they had actually been fucking. Feli's mind had been out in the hall with a large German, and Heracles he knew was thinking of his own lover.

Chewing with unusual solemnity, the Italian snuck a longing glance at his bodyguard. He was patient with his failings, and oddly kind, in his stunted and brutal way.

Ludwig saw the way Feli was looking at him.

It just made the hurt worse.

~====o)0(o====~

**Guess who whipped this baby up in one day? Damn straight it was me! My mom gave me this whole article on how to be productive and instead of applying it to my studies; I sat my butt down and planned the rest of the story. **

**And the sequel. **

**I love those people who ask what you're drawing and just let you get on with it when you answer "softcore pirate porn." On that note, I hope you liked the softcore USUK, I almost died writing it (my parents were behind me). It occurs to me that at this point they're mostly comic relief. Give it a few chapters. **

**Cabin Fever – Hans Zimmer, Muppet Treasure Island Soundtrack. Fuck yeah!**

**~RutheLa**


	14. Catalyst

**My dear readers, how do I love thee? One, one thousand, two one thousand! **

**DarkLadyRebel, skittleAcullen, Goldpen, usuk, FiveLeggedTango, Catsdon'tcry, Pigzy-kun, Tala, JustAmel, ichiman, kisa2012, Stripes93 and Blue Rai. There seem to be less of you now that I've typed it up. . . **

**To FiveLeggedTango, who shares so many of my interests.**

**And everyone please say thank you to Stripes93, without whom, you would never have known why Arthur was being so reserved about having Alfred handed to him on a silver platter with a note that read, "He likes it hard and up the ass, enjoy."**

**I was expecting more hate mail for my total neglect of Elizaveta's kidnap. Just as well.**

**Cast your mind back to chapter 2 . . . .**

~====o)0(o====~

Gilbert opened the 'family meeting' he had called with undeniable proof that not only had he been inside for far, far too long, but that he was also unhealthily obsessed with _Pirates of The Caribbean_;

"Let us not, dear friends, forget our dear friends the cuttlefish; flipping glorious little sausages. Pen them up together and they will devour each other without a second thought. Human nature, in'it? Or fish nature. So, yes, we could hold up here, well-provisioned and well-armed, and half of us would be dead within the month!

"It's been almost a month, people! We need to get out of here before one of us pulls a Hannibal," he hissed like Anthony Hopkins to emphasize his point, "and my money's on him."

Everyone followed the direction of Gilbert's finger to Feli's blankly smiling face.

There was a silence that greeted this action in which there was a generic telephonic bleep. Everyone but Ludwig slapped madly at their pockets to find the offending technology. There were only two people who would possibly call him right now, and he had been besides both of them for two weeks straight.

"Mine!" Feliciano called happily, but his face fell as he read the text.

"Ve~" he said softly, mouth drooping, lips quivering, "Gennaro died. He fell down the stairs and broke his neck."

Ludwig looked at his suit. Lovi and Feli looked at their pants, Antonia looked at her skirt-suit and Gilbert looked at his blazer. All of them were wearing something made by the old Tailor.

The younger Italian began to sniffle, tears collecting on his eyelashes and dripping onto his cheeks. Soon there were saline rivers down his skin.

"N-now I-I-I," he hiccupped miserably, "I have to t-tell Sophia that her p-papa is d-dead! J-just l-like N-nonno t-t-told me-he-he!" he wailed.

Lovino made a face that was a strange mixture of anger, sadness and the desire to strangle his little brother.

"_Chigi! Stai zitto, idiota_!" he snapped half-heartedly.

The two, completely confused Germans looked to Antonia for enlightenment, as luck would have it, just as her phone rang. She checked caller ID and held up a finger to the brothers, indicating that she would only be a minute.

"_Hola_!" she said brightly, but her face fell into one of exasperation as she heard the panicked sounding voice on the other end, most of which was not English or Spanish, "_Ay_, Francis. _Calm_ _down_, I can't understand you. No, I don't know if I can come out yet," she sighed, rubbing her temples, "_Querido_, I _know_ you're a pacifist. I _know_. Can't you ask Matthew to do it? I'm sure he has some steam to blow off. _What_? We'll talk about that later I just- It's not like I'm asking you to pull out his fingernails! I just want you to kneecap him for me! Is that _so_ much to ask? _Thank you!"_

She hung up with a disapproving _tsk_ and turned to the Germans.

"I used to think that that was gardener's slang," Lovino sighed morosely, "C'mon Feli. One of you bastards tell us when we're allowed out." Feliciano nodded wetly and got up to leave.

Gilbert nodded and turned back to Antonia, "So, ah, what was that about?"

"Hmmm? Oh. Feli took their parent's, God rest them, death rather hard; you know how sensitive he is. Four years ago, there was a car bomb. It was a terrible tragedy. Closed casket, ceremony, you know," she pursed her lips unhappily, "There isn't much more to it than that. Roma started grooming them to be killers then. But they'd already grown up with it. That's why Lovi is so cynical, and why I don't think Feli even knows what he's doing is wrong a lot of the time."

"_Jesus_," Gilbert whistled, and Antonia smacked him across the knuckles with her teaspoon,

"Mind your tongue!" she said sharply. The albino hissed, shaking his hand with a scowl. Silently, he vowed never to allow his son to get as emotionally twisted up in this filthy business as Feliciano and Lovino.

"That explains a lot, actually," Ludwig mused. Tapping his fingers restlessly, he pushed his chair out and said,

"Please excuse me," before striding off in the direction that the Italians had gone.

"Wait! _Lutz_! Can we leave now, _please_?"

"_Ja. Was auch immer_," the younger German said dismissively, without looking back.

Gilbert frowned after his brother, "That was unexpectedly disturbing. I've never heard him say _whatever_ in that context before."

"Who cares?" Antonia whooped happily, "I need to go see a man about a kneecap!"

~====o)0(o====~

"Herr Vargas?" Ludwig said, coughing politely.

"_Si_?" both Feliciano and Lovino said simultaneously.

"May I speak with," he drew a deep breath, "with Feli?" he asked, grimacing slightly.

Lovino raised an eyebrow, but only said, "This isn't _my_ dictatorship," and left the room.

Feeling as though his clothes were suddenly three sizes too small, he sat down. This was so uncomfortable for him. This was the second time in as mean days that he was taking it upon himself to comfort the young man and really, it wasn't something that came naturally to him.

"He- Felic- Feli," he said, wishing dearly to be anywhere else on this earth, and yet at the same time, he was really happy to be exactly where he was, "I'm really- My condolences on the loss of your parents. I know how hard that can be. Gilbert raised me from the time I was," there, he had shared something personal. That was a good thing, right? "I know it wouldn't be easy for you to talk to Sophia about her father, so," he coughed, "I . . . was a . . . father, and I know about . . . dealing with loss. Perhaps, you would prefer it if I spoke to her for you?"

By this point in the rather one-sided conversation, Feliciano was wrapped inextricably about Ludwig's arm, sniffling tearfully, yet happier than he had been earlier,

"Ve~ You called me Feli! _Grazie_, Ludwig, _grazie_ _mille_!"

"It's nothing, we're friends," he swallowed thickly. There was absolutely no way that he wanted to even give the slightest clue that he wanted to be more then friends. That he was feeling a little as though he should take the other's hand or give some other form of physical comfort was disconcerting.

"Si. Friends," he didn't see the Italian's restored smile falter slightly.

~====o)0(o====~

"It was really nice of you to go to a gym," Gilbert said suspiciously, sipping a beer. He had been drummed out of Lovino's home by Antonia with several loud, '_I can take care of him just fine, thank you_!'s

"Hmmm?" Feli muttered, a spoonful of melted sorbet sitting on his tongue, he tore his eyes from the figure of Ludwig running track.

"I mean, you are about the least sport-orientated person I know. And I'm including my awesome self in that generalisation," he tapped his fingers against the table, "What are you after."

"I want in."

"Hmmm, into what?" he asked, keeping a watchful eye on his brother. There had been an instance a few years back where he had sprained his ankle, and it would be just damn unfortunate if he twisted an ankle before he could take that brace off his wrist. Also, although he was equally skilled with both hands (through much practise) he was not actually ambidextrous, and would automatically attempt to soften his landing with his dominant hand. As luck would have it, the right one.

"Ve~ Into Beast's pants," Feli chirped as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Gilbert sprayed beer all over the table.

"_Was_? You want _what_ now?" he choked, trying to clear alcohol from his airways.

"I want Ludwig to fuck me," he said happily.

"My mind! _Gott im Himmel_! My mind! Mental images I never needed to- Ice-cream! I need ice-cream! Bring me ice-cream!" he yelled at a frightened looking waitress, "You stupid b-"

"Ve~ _Signorina, gelato, per favore_. At least until he forgets that I want to have sex with his brother," he winked and she blushed, running off to find the lunatic his gelato.

After fifteen minutes of mindless self indulgence on frozen dairy product, Gilbert sat back and stared at Feliciano Vargas critically. After another five minutes of that and some careful thinking he spoke,

"No fucking way in hell," he said levelly, "I refuse. You are not going to get my baby brother mixed up in your shit."

"Ve~ And why not?" Feli's bubbly demeanour was fast losing its fizz.

"Because," Gilbert said very clearly, "I refuse to let you stomp your designer loafers all over my little brother's heart. He has been through hell, and I'm not going to let you drag him back down there. I don't care how much he may like you back; you are not emotionally invested enough in this for it to be healthy for him."

"He likes me back?" Feli asked, eyes widening, a devious smirk playing across his lips.

"Fuck." That would be the one thing Feli picked out of that speech.

"Oh, I will," the Italian purred, warming to his idea. It had started as a passing fancy, but now it was an intense desire. He really wanted Ludwig to take him. He'd like it hard and fast, but he suspected long and slow might be more the other's style. And strangely, he couldn't object to that. It was just so _Ludwig_. He was about foreplay and lovemaking and cuddling afterwards.

Or, at least that's what Feli found himself hoping. For someone who liked his sex rough and ready, he was being surprisingly sentimental about a single lay.

"No. You. Will. _Not_." Gilbert snarled out, "How would you feel if Antonia died and then someone messed around with Lovino just to get a leg over? That's how I feel. I was friends with Monika, I used to babysit her, damn it. I was best man at their wedding. I may not be as close with my brother as I was then, but not for lack of trying. I am _still_ the big brother, and I will not let you fuck with him, head, body or heart. And for Ludwig, those aren't exactly separate entities."

"Oh, _Ludwig_! Yes~ Oh! YES~! _Harder_!" Feli moaned, his mouth twisted into a sick smile as he stared the albino straight in the eye.

Gilbert was on his feet, face brilliant with rage, "_**NEIN!**_"He practically screamed. The entire gym restaurant stared at him in fear and disgust.

"No what, Gil?" Ludwig said, a little smile actually hooking itself into the corners of his mouth. He was a little out of breath and soaked in sweat; his black wife beater sticking wetly to his skin, and Feli couldn't remember if he'd ever seen anything quite so desirable, "You are in public, remember?"

"Ve~! Ludwig," Feli's usual look of complete incomprehension was firmly on his face, "Gil says that a peanut is a nut," he pouted. The blonde shook his head,

"Gilbert, you should know better. It's a legume."

The sneaky little fucker! The elder German stared at Feliciano with narrowed eyes. So that was how he was going to play it huh? Feli quirked an eyebrow by way of challenge, a tiny smirk twitching on his lips. Gilbert leant back.

"_Ja_, maybe, but brainiac over there thought a tomato was a fruit."

Feliciano blinked and Lutz closed his eyes, silently pleading for the strength to deal with his brother.

"Gilbert. A tomato _is_ a fruit."

"Fuck!" he said vehemently. Without another word, Ludwig turned to go and change out of his sweaty clothes, hoping the madness would dissipate before he got back.

~====o)0(o====~

"What more do you want me to do?" Alfred said, waving his arms about desperately, "I really, _really_ like you, _Arthur_."

The Englishman set down his tea and pushed his headphones down around his neck,

"I realised that, lad. You weren't exactly covert about your feelings," he laughed softly, "but there are other factors to consider."

"Like what? Don't you like me back? I know that you do, you said so!" the American was gesticulating wildly.

"Thank you, Alfred, I have an excellent memory. But those are not the factors I'm talking about. One of them is the age difference. Did you stop to consider that I was in university when you were being _born_?"

"Haven't I told you? That _turns me on_!"

"That it may well, but I can't say that it's ever done much for me. Aside from that we have the minor issue of our professional relationship. I've been in a relationship with a co-worker before, and my dear boy, in this line of work it is especially hazardous. When feeling get in the way of the work in our profession, people _die._ I have no desire to be burned like that again."

"Artie! Listen to me, please! You don't have to take the heat for it, I will. My boss knows what I'm like. I think he's actually kinda surprised that I haven't been involved in a shoot-em-up yet. I'll take the responsibility for this relationship. I'll tell them that you tried to resist. And fuck me if you didn't, man. If I'd seen _you_ on the floor like that, I would have raised my stars and stripes faster than you can say Uncle Sam."

"That was an awful lot of patriotism. And you speak as though we are already involved romantically."

Alfred chuckled nervously, "Wishful thinking?"

"Alfred, I really don't think that we would be a good idea, as tempting as it may be," Arthur folded his arms across his chest.

"Artie! Come on! I've flying a flag for you, and I know you are too, I saw that in the kitchen. I give you one week until you fold," Alfred was beginning to sound a lot like a petulant child.

Well, as the old adage went, if you can't beat em, join em. If Alfred wanted to behave like a child, then it couldn't hurt for him to be a little immature, could it? Now what was that phrase Peter was so fond of? (He cringed a little when he thought of his nephew, who would be Alfred's age soon.)

"Alright, boy," Arthur put on his best pirate's smirk, "_challenge accepted_."

~====o)0(o====~

Ludwig wandered through the rooms of Lovino's rather oversized home, lit as they were by late afternoon sunlight. After about a half an hour's searching, he found a small, deep green room with a girl inside it. She was quite pretty, with dark hair, olive skin and liquid brown doe eyes.

"What do you want?" she asked moodily in thickly accented English.

"Are you Sophia?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," her answer was weary. With a sigh, Ludwig sat down and motioned for her to do the same. With fear in her eyes, she complied.

"I have some very bad news for you," he sighed, "I'm afraid that your father has passed away."

Sophia scrambled backwards, stumbling to her feet, "No! _NO_! You liar! _Mia_ _Papa_! He is no dead!"

"I'm really sorry Sophia, he is. I'm so sorry."

"You not sorry! What do you know about it!" she screamed, throwing a scatter cushion at his face.

"More than I hope you will ever know. Please, calm down. I have a message from him, and from Herr Vargas," he soothed, trying to get her to calm down.

"You-you do?" she asked, tears beginning to gather and spill from her eyes.

"Yes. I met him a few months back. He loved you very much. He even asked me to protect you."

"Idiota!" Sophia sobbed, her knees tucked up under her chin, arms wrapped around her legs, rocking back and forth, "Papa! Papa! Why didn't you do what he said?"

"There was a conflict of interests."

"You wear his suit. He was brilliant."

"He was,"

They sat there, and Ludwig listened to her snotty, heaving sobs, wondering if this was how Louise would have reacted if he had died.

"What's going to happen to me now?" she asked once the sun had set and she had calmed.

"I'm to escort you out. There will be a car and you can go back to Venice. Herr Vargas is prepared to pay you for your inconvenience."

"How kind," she spat, "I do not want his money."

"When will you be ready to leave?"

"Now," she bit her lip, tears welling up again, "I want to leave this place."

Ludwig nodded and held the door open for her and walked after her, noting that her head was held high. As they walked, she paused, looking curiously into a darkened corridor from which a fluting trill of Italian was issuing. Ludwig looked on and noted that it was Nicki, who cleaned up after Feli's little accidents.

Shrugging it off, he continued forward to where Sophia was striding ahead of him, not only resolute but determined also, and the German felt a feeling of foreboding creep up on him.

Shaking it off he helped her into a taxi and went back upstairs to eat.

~====o)0(o====~

If there was one thing to which Ludwig still hadn't reconciled himself about living in any Vargas household, it was mealtimes. The downside to living with four devout Catholics was that things could be very regimented when anything vaguely ceremonial was concerned.

Supper for example, was not eaten until the entire 'family' was seated and had said grace. Thankfully, they never made the blonde lead the grace, but they did make him say it. Sadists.

It struck Ludwig that although these people had some of the most violent, cruel jobs in the world, though pretty much everything that they did went against what their bible preached, they still clung tenaciously to their faith. It was admirable, and he supposed that to do what they did they had to know that there was some kind of master plan. And they believed in this master plan so whole-heartedly that they could do anything, as long as it was in the sake of a higher purpose. Not God, or the Church, or anything like that. Fate, Destiny. The predetermined course of their lives. That was what they struggled on with and that their God helped them through. He guided them through the obstacles of that fate.

Sometimes Ludwig felt like the only person with his eyes open.

Gilbert's phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. Normally, they weren't allowed phones at the table, because it could disrupt the family bonding time. It occurred to the younger German that perhaps the Vargas' brothers had a very loose manner of conducting business, if the bodyguards were treated as part of the family.

"It's Elizaveta!" the albino cheered, pouncing on the device and holding it to his ear,

"Lizavet! I've missed you, ho-"

"_Gilbert_!" her voice was panicked and the end of his name tailed off as though the phone was being pulled away from her,

"Elizaveta! What just happened? Are you al-" the man's voice that interrupted his question made his blood run cold.

"_Where's your girl, Gil_?"

~====o)0(o====~

**End! I have a few quick things to say; another one-day chapter. I even wrote an exam today as well. Speaking off, I have all my worst subjects one after the other next week, so I probably won't be updating this until at least next Thursday. Haha, cliffhanger! Also, you may or may not have noticed that I will now be replying to all your reviews personally ^_^ Also, I'm going to do a 200****th**** review one-shot thing, just because it looks like we're heading that way anyway. **

**The typo that never was:** "_Sophia, your father loves me very much._"

**On a more serious note, a dear friend of mine and someone very close to her are going through a difficult time, and I would appreciate any and all positive energy and wishes that I can forward to them, thank you. **

**~RutheLa**


	15. What's A Crush To Do?

**DarkLadyRebel , skittleAcullen, muffins98 , Blu Rai , Catsdon'tcry ,Tala , Chad-Vader , Shizuka Aralia, My fanfiction wife (Someperv), Invisible Randomer , KajiMori , JustAmel , Pigyz-kun, Awesomeness Incarnate, Skullover and poptabprincess. **

**-o)0(o-**

**-o)0(o-**

Squeak; gone, but never forgotten. Brandy; a dear and loyal friend.

They made our lives brighter, and will be sorely missed.

In the arms of the Goddess

**-o)0(o-**

**Thank you to everyone who gave their good wishes and prayers to Brandy in her time of need. **

**-o)0(o-**

**In a side note, and please don't hate me for this: if you're waiting to see our favourite international superspies get it on in this story, , then you my friends are going to get blue balls. If you ask me nicely, I'll do a side story once this is done. **

~====o)0(o====~

Arthur didn't last a week.

He didn't last two _days_.

But in his defence, Alfred played dirty.

It was very hard, every pun intended, to resist a man who walked around stark naked with his morning wood on proud display and greeted you with, "Hey Arty, let's fuck."

Also he smelt of vanilla. Arthur loved vanilla.

He had discovered why when he was in the shower. He had run out of shampoo and decided to kidnap some of Alfred's. As he squeezed the soap into his cupped palm it occurred to him that even when he wasn't around, the American was seducing him. For starters, the pearlescent shampoo looked far too much like semen to be normal, and secondly, it smelt like vanilla. His favourite smell.

Arthur muttered venom on the theme of FBI agents as he lathered his hair.

Once out of the shower, still a little damp and desert-scented, he passed through the living room where Alfred was dozing on the sofa, waiting for a call to translate.

Of course, he wasn't wearing a damn thing but a white Stetson pulled low over his eyes. Had he clothes on, he would have looked like a proper old-west cowboy, just like his sky blue eyes suggested.

On an impulse, he dropped his towel and walked over to the sleeping figure.

~====o)0(o====~

"Was that _so_ difficult, Francis?" Antonia asked, pulling off a pair of gardener's gloves and tossing them aside.

"Was it really necessary to break _both_ his legs?" the Frenchman asked, looking a little green about the gills, "And did you have to do it with my hoe?"

"Yes, it was and yes, I did, now what was it that you wanted to ask about Lars?"

"How well do you know him?" Francis' sickly demeanour vanished instantly as though cleansed by a cold wind.

"Reasonably," she shrugged, "I met him a few years back at a party. I thought he was hitting on me, but it turns out that he just wanted me to clear out of his turf." She laughed, "Once that was cleared up, we got on pretty well."

"He gave Matthieu hero."

"He what?" Antonia asked, disbelief etched across her face, "No, he couldn't have."

"He gave Matthieu drugs and his card," Francis enunciated, his accent thickening as his pent-up rage leaked through, "Do you see this? _Lars Van Dyk_!" he waved the little piece of card in her face.

"Francis, calm yourself!"

"_Mon Dieu! Me calmer_?" He yelled, gesturing expansively, "_Vous voulez moi me calmer? Mon copain près de rechute et que vous voulez me calmer_?"

"I can't understand you, _Pinche idiota_!"

"_Vous n'avez pas le droit d'êtreen colère_!" He roared, jabbing a finger at her face angrily, "_Cela n'a aucun effet sur vous_!"

"_¿Por qué gritas a mí, puto? __Esta no es mi culpa!" _ She screamed, slapping him through the face. He raised a hand to strike back, but a pale hand grabbed his wrist.

"_Ce n'est pas son faute, mon amour,_" Matthew said, touching Francis' knuckles to his lips.

The Frenchman sagged visibly. "I know," he sighed miserably.

"Are we done yelling?" Antonia pouted huffily.

"Yes," Matt said firmly, threading his fingers through his lover's, "My issue with Lars doesn't appear to be the only one. I was talking to Feli and he told me that his bodyguard has a serious bit with him as well. I couldn't get the full story out because he started crying, but I'm betting it's bad. I caught the words _daughter_ and _corpse_."

Antonia whistled softly. "He seemed nice enough."

Francis shot her an icy glare, "_Et effet_."

"Focus," the Canadian urged softly, "What are we going to do about this?"

The Frenchman and the Spanish woman exchanged a wicked look, one that reminded Matthew exactly why, despite their differences, they were best friends.

~====o)0(o====~

Alfred woke up to a hard on. That in itself was pretty run-of-the-mill. What was slightly more out of the ordinary was the naked Englishman straddling his hips,

"Arty?" he asked, not entirely sure that he was even awake, "Not that I'm complaining, but what the holy hell are you doin?"

Arthur pulled three, wet fingers from his own mouth, his face a curious mix of scowl and smirk,

"What does it look like I'm doing, lad? I'm saving a horse."

~====o)0(o====~

"Who the fuck are you and what have you done with Elizaveta?" Gilbert snarled into the phone, unsure of when he had stood up.

Lovi and Feli exchanged worried glances, and the elder Italian's mind jumped to his fiancé. He was confident that she could take care of herself, but he was still worried.

"_Ask your brother_," the voice laughed. Gilbert looked at Ludwig, confused and afraid,

"Lutz?" He asked, "Where's Lizavet?"

The younger German started at him blankly for a minute before comprehension dawned and the blackest of scowls descended on his features, "_Lars_!" he said, the name sounding of poison in his mouth.

The voice laughed, "_He remembers!_" Lars crowed, "_We did this together, didn't we, Luddy? Do you remember how she cried? Lizzy here is much braver. Aren't you, Lizzy?_"

"_Get away from us!"_

"Lizavet! Lizavet! Get the fuck away from her!"

"_Danny-boy looks just like his mommy. Blue eyes, though. Must have got those from his daddy."_

"What do you want?" Gilbert snapped.

"_I want you to meet me at the Modern National Gallery at four o clock tomorrow afternoon, and I want you to bring that Spanish songbird of yours. Or the first thing Lizzy loses will be those pretty, pretty eyes."_

"_Hurinson_!" Gilbert yelled as the line disconnected, leaving Lars' soft laughter hanging blackly in the air.

"Ve~ Gil, have some bruschetta, you'll feel better," Feli smiled tentatively, pushing a plate of bread and vegetables across the table towards him. In one, angry motion, Gilbert knocked the plate to the floor, where the ceramic shattered and the food splattered against the ground.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Vargas? Elizaveta and my child are being held by some psycho, and you want me to eat a fucking sandwich? _Zum Teufel noch mal_; you are actually as much of a fucktard as people say you are!"

"_Chigi_! Nobody insults my brother like that!" Lovino stood, he chair falling backwards with the violence of the action. Feli bit his lip, his face scrunching up

"Gilbert!" Ludwig went further, moving between his employer and his brother, "He was just trying to help."

"I always knew that you were emotionally stunted, but I never knew it was this bad!" the albino hissed, "Choosing a stranger over your own family? What's next? Are you going to shoot Lizavet and Daniel, too?"

The blonde German recoiled visibly, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

"_Auch eine Art Mensch kann grausam sein_." He said quietly, his expressionless mask beginning to crack and flake away a little.

His own brother had-? It was true. _Even kind men can be cruel_. He felt as though someone had just socked him in the gut. He felt winded.

Gilbert's face, if possible, paled. His eyes widened and he reached towards Ludwig,

"_Bruderlien_-" he began, but the younger brushed his hand away.

"Not now. What are we going to do about Elizaveta? What does he want?" Even though he felt like there was a knife in his back.

"He wants to meet me at the Modern National Gallery tomorrow at four with Antonia."

"That son of a bitch!" Lovi said, smacking his palm down on the table.

"Ja. Now, I suggest that you let Antonia take point, Gil," Ludwig suggested, "you're too emotionally involved in this."

"Too emotiona- She's the mother of my child, Ludwig! How can I possibly be too emotionally involved?"

"If you act rashly, you will they will get hurt. Are you willing to watch them die?" Lutz said, a little harshly and perhaps too coldly, but it got his point across; Gil took a step back, holding up his hands in surrender.

"Okay, okay! You win; I'm too emotionally attached. So what do we do?"

Lovi pulled out his phone; "I'll call Antonia."

~====o)0(o====~

Three pm the following afternoon saw Gilbert bouncing tetchily off the walls, floors and ceiling. The tenacious last fingers of summer were fading from the late November air, and in addition to his constant pacing and gesticulating, was rubbing his arms to ward against the cold.

Ludwig was about to smack Gil upside the head or knock him unconscious – the latter was rather tempting – and continue reading his Letters From Italy when a mobile phone chirped, prompting a room-wide body search until the source of the noise was found.

"Ve~! I'm popular!" he laughed, flipping open his phone and read his message. The people in the room watched him expectantly. Usually Feli would read out his messages, and honestly, there wasn't a soul in to room who wasn't bored enough to find one of those solicitous texts entertaining.

"It's from Nicki!" he cooed, "He says that he says that he can only meet me at six because he has to take part in a sting- wait a minute." His cheerful face collapsed into a frown as he scrutinised the message,

"My name isn't Ivan!"

The occupants of the small room started at his exclamation. Ivan. The only _Ivan_ anyone in the room was even vaguely familiar with was _Braginsky_.

"We have a mole, people!" Gilbert said loudly, and immediately there was a scurry of activity,

"Lovi, I can't do help you with Elizaveta, I need to deal with Nick- Puccini." Feli muttered, his posture slumped and his tone of voice utterly miserable.

Lovino nodded curtly. That was alright. They could pull this off without the younger Italian and his bodyguard. Ludwig's hands curled into knuckled fists. He was going to miss his chance to deal with Lars! He gritted his teeth, dentist be damned, this was _unacceptable_.

"Feli," he somehow managed to remain clear, even though he was speaking through what amounted to so much lockjaw, "If there is any way-"

"Ve~ Lutz, I know. I'm sorry, but I need you with me for this," he answered softly, placing a hand squarely on the larger man's chest, over his heart.

Ludwig allowed himself a small grimace of pain. This was Lars! Mathias' right hand – he repressed a shudder as memories came to his mind, sharp and clear – man. He had helped organise the entire thing. And now he was going to miss his chance. His last chance. . .

He would have liked to believe that it was his commitment to his job that kept him from telling the little Italian he worked for to fuck off and die, but in all honesty, it was because he could still feel the heat from that slim hand on his chest. The strange feeling of wholeness radiated from that spot. It made him feel needed and useful in a way that he hadn't in a very long time. It was a good feeling, bust as with all the other good feeling that had been resurging of late, it was laced with guilt.

"_Jawohl_," he agreed stiffly. As he and Feli turned to leave the room, he grasped Gilbert's shoulder tightly, "_Bruch seinem verdammten Kiefer_." He growled out. The albino raised his eyebrows but nodded grimly none the less.

_Break his fucking jaw_.

~====o)0(o====~

Lars was waiting calmly in the gallery, one arm about Elizaveta's waist, the other holding a Beretta nine-mil to at the baby in her arms.

"Hush-a-bye, Dan," she crooned, her heart beating like a rabbit's, "Daddy will come for us." She hoped.

"That's right, Danny-boy," the Dutchman chipped in, "Daddy's going to come and then uncle Lars is going to shoot him, and Luddy, Toni," he leant in to whisper in Elizaveta's ear, his breath hot and heavy as a carnivore's, "then mommy and you."

She shivered.

"Elizaveta!" she turned her head sharply, heart leaping into her throat in relief. There was Gilbert, striding forwards, a pale trench coat snapping behind him like canvas in a high wind, and not one but three guns clearly visible on his person. His face was twisted into a murderous snarl. Antonia and Lovi marched along behind him along with three other gunmen.

"Ah, welcome, everyone!" Lars said delightedly, turning to face the approaching party, his gun pressed hard enough into the swaddling cloth in the Hungarian's arms to make Daniel squirm and whimper.

"Let them go, Lars." The albino bit out, "Let them go, and I might let you live."

The Dutchman smiled patronizingly, tutting and shaking his head as he did so, "Oh, dearie me, Gil. You aren't in any position to be making threats here," he flashed his Baretta, pulling it away from the baby only to run the barrel over Elizaveta's neck, "How badly do you want to see her dead?"

"What do you want, you _sick_ fuck?"

"Simple. I want all of you dead, and Toni's empire."

Lovino gave his fiancé a long-suffering glance; "Empire? _Really_?"

"_Si_." She said shortly, looking directly ahead, "I said drug _Lord_, did I not?" Lovi grimaced.

"Tsch. I suppose you did."

"Lovi, are you sure that you want to marry a gal you know nothing about? She could be a whore for all you know? Or a spy! I know you have one of those. . . "

"As sure as I am that you are going to die, if I have to cut out your fucking tongue myself."

"Tsk, tsk, Lovi, such bad language," Lars grinned.

"Lars." Gilbert said, pulling out his own Baretta and sighting it, "Give me back my family."

The Dutchman jammed the nose of the gun hard into the soft skin under his hostages chin, "Sure thing, Gilbo, would you like to die before or after them?"

"_Brennen in der Hölle_."

"Gilbo, shame on you. I can't burn in hell when I'm not dead. Speaking of, where's Luddy. I did so want him to join the party."

"He had better things to do."

"Oh I doubt that. Did he tell you what happened? Did he?" Cold blue eyes narrowed triumphantly, "No, I don't think that he did. Not much to tell I suppose. He bitch was cold by the time I got a turn. Which is a pity; I like them warm and kicking."

"You-" Gilbert choked, furious. His shoulders were shaking with rage, but the hands on his gun remained steady; surgeon's hands.

"Yes, me. You know. It's a pity we had to leave. I would have liked to have seen him crawling about with his shoulder all out of joint. That would have been funny," Lars grinned widely, showing too many, too sharp molars, "you know. I really wanted a go with little Elouise."

"_Verflixt_!"

"Now, now, don't get nasty; I'm just saying. She was a pretty little thing. Just like her mommy."

"And this, children, is where we keep th- Oh my God!" a woman scream. She was obviously some kind of teacher giving a class a tour. She back peddled furiously, pushing the herd of 12-year-olds behind her. Lars' head snapped around to look at the commotion behind him,

"_Godverdomme_!" he hissed viciously, followed shortly by a very loud howl of, "_**FUCK**_!" as Gilbert's bullet ploughed into his shoulder. Stepping forward, the German pulled Elizaveta and Daniel towards him and pecked her quickly on the lips before pushing her away. Striding forward, he landed a heavy blow to the Dutchman's temple with the magazine of his gun.

Antonia snapped her fingers, pointing to the fallen body of the would-be usurper, "You two, take him to the care. _Pronto_!" The two men looked at each other, confused.

"Do what she says, stupid bastards!" Lovino demanded. They nodded and moved forward to obey.

The Italian touched his temples, "What are we even doing here?"he asked wearily.

"Doing Gilbert a favour because you secretly admire him and you owe him?"

"That was a rhetorical question," he grumbled.

~====o)0(o====~

Gilbert sat hunched across from Elizaveta in the back of a commandeered ambulance. Well, not commandeered, per se, but it was driven by a trusted man.

"Hush, Dan," Elizaveta cooed, stroking the tuft of dark hair on her child's head calmingly, "Meet your father," she held him out to Gil, "Daddy, do you want to hold your baby boy?"

The German's steady hands shook as he carefully took the child and held him to his chest.

"Hello, Daniel Héderváry. I'm your dad," he said, stroking his son's cheek.

"Daniel Beilschmidt," she corrected with a quiet smile, "his birth certificate says Beilschmidt."

Gilbert looked at her, red eyes wide, "Beilschmidt?"

She nodded.

He smiled, looking down, carefully transferring the boy to the stretcher besides his mother. He fished around in his coat pocket, "I should have done this years ago," he said, sliding onto one knee,

"Elizaveta Héderváry, will you do me the honour of becoming Elizaveta Beilschmidt?"

"What do you think Dan?" she said, tuning to her son, smiling, "Should mommy marry daddy?"

She grabbed one of the paddles from the standard-issue defibrillator, yelling, "Clear!" as she brought it down on Gil's head.

"Jesus Fucking Christ, Lizavet!" Gilbert hissed, holding his head. Thankfully the paddle hadn't been charged.

"That was for taking so long," she smiled, kissing him chastely, "Yes. I will."

~====o)0(o====~

"_Per favore, Feli, no_!" Nicki begged, hanging in the ropes that bound him to the chair. Feliciano stood above him, face white with rage.

"You disobeyed me. You betrayed me, and the rest of our family. Why did you do it?"

"I had no choice!" he sobbed, "I had to do it of he'd kill me! You don't know what he's like."

"You should have died," Feli said, putting the barrel of the gun to Nicki's head and pulling the trigger.

Ludwig watched the figure flop lifelessly in its bonds, blood and gore splattering darkly onto the concrete floor of this killing room, the sound of gunshot still ringing soprano in the confined space.

Under his gaze, the slight Italian's shoulder's began to shake and the gun clattered to the floor , splashing the spilt blood. Into the deafened silence, a hiccupping sob broke free from Feli's lungs, quickly followed by another and another.

He German walked forward, resting a large hand on the small, heaving shoulder, "Feliciano?"

His employer turned to him; wrapping slim arms about his waist and pressing close as he wept. "Please. Per favore, Ludwig," he murmured into the shirt he was currently ruining with his tears, "Hold me."

So he did. Ludwig held Feli close, turning his arms into a protective barrier that blocked out the image of Nicki's slumped body. The heat that he had felt earlier when the young man had laid a hand over his heat returned in full force, imbuing his entire being with warmth. It felt good, whole. It was nice to have someone whom he was interested in again, whom he could look after and care for.

Feli was whispering something into his shirt, and there was a faint repeated pressure. Ludwig had to look down to realise that the younger man was kissing his chest, and that was all it took for the guilt to hit him like a freight train. He disentangled himself from his employer and took several quick steps backwards.

"Herr Vargas, that's inappropriate," he said stiffly, warmth draining from his body. He didn't want to feel cold again, but he most certainly did not want to get further involved in this. Or at least he didn't think so.

"No, no no!" Feli said, shaking his head, "_Per favore_, Ludwig, no, don't call me that! Please? Can't you just hold me? Please? I know that you want me, too." The blonde inhaled sharply.

"I can't." he shook his head. Why did it have to be this way. Why couldn't the little wretch just take the hug at face value and have done with it.

"Can't or won't?" the younger man demanded.

"Both!" Ludwig snapped angrily, silently begging for Feli to just drop the subject.

"She's dead, _idiota_! She doesn't care!" the Italian howled, tears still streaming down his face.

Without a word, Ludwig turned on his heel and walked up the stairs and out of the room, leaving Feliciano to curse bitterly, wiping blood and water from his face. He still wanted a hug.

~====o)0(o====~

Ivan tapped his fingers against the wall of the restaurant onto which he was leaning. Nicki was late.

"Ivan?" the voice was female, and neither of his sisters'.

"Da." He turned around to find a short Italian woman before him. She was dressed simply and her ace was tight.

"Nicki will not be coming today. He has been disposed of. They found out that he was a spy."

Ivan nodded slowly, "How?"

"I switched the contacts on his phone so that he sent his messages to Feliciano instead of you."

"Da. Why?"

"Because," Sophia said, a dark light glittering in her eyes, "I want to be the one to kill Feliciano Vargas."

~====o)0(o====~

**Four days, six cups of Earl Grey (just today) and approximately 30 doujins (That is what I did this morning) of assorted pairings later, we have chapter fifteen. **

**That argument translated: **

"_Mon Dieu! Me calmer_? _Vous voulez moi me calmer? Mon copain près de rechute et que vous voulez me calmer_?" – My God ! Calm down ? My boyfriend almost had a relapse and you want me to calm down ?

"_Pinche idiota_!" – Fucking idiot!

"_Vous n'avez pas le droit d'êtreen colère_!_ Cela n'a aucun effet sur vous_!" – You have no right to be angry ! This doesn't affect you !

"_¿Por qué gritas a mí, puto? Esta no es mi culpa!" _ - Why are you yelling at me ? This isn't my fault!

"_Ce n'est pas son faute, mon amour,_" - It's not her fault, love.

"_Et effet_." – Indeed.

**I need to stop listening to techno, take a Mypridol for this fucking headache (equivalent of Tylenol, I think. It's a REALLY bad headache) and do my chores.**

**Huggies and lovies and thankies for reviews.**

**~RutheLa**


	16. Precious Things

**Stripes93, Tala, Erik's Phantomess, skittleAcullen** – who was so incensed that she started speaking Italian - **, Oreocooky, Shizuka Aralia, Invisible Randomer, KajiMori, JustAmel and Pigyz-kun.**

**To everyone who read my summary in chapter one and thought "Pfsht. Gil's normal. Where did she get off including **_**psycho**_** in the description?" You have not yet read chapter 16. **

**This chapter goes out to Jen. Renda and her friend Awesomeness Incarnate; Jen for ranting about this to her friends after reading only chapter one; Awesomeness for listening to her. **

**200****th**** reviewer gets a one-shot of their choice. **

**This is about to get gory. **

~====o)0(o====~

Gilbert stood in the chilly night air outside a simple grey warehouse in the middle of fucking no-where, Francis stood beside him, looking like he wanted to either have a smoke or kick someone in the teeth.

Preferably Lars Van Dyk.

"Have you got what you need, boys?" Antonia asked. She looked utterly transformed. Instead of her usual crisp suit and squeaky-shiny stiletto heels, she was wearing a pair of jeans and an ominously splattered shirt. Her hair, usually piled into an elegant up do was pulled back into a harsh and practical bun, and a pain of thick gloves covered her delicate fingers.

Francis nodded, picking up a sports bag that had something that looked suspiciously like a hockey-stick sticking out of one end.

Gilbert inclined his head as well, patting the simple black messenger bag at his side and it clinked a little.

Antonia grinned wickedly; "Then let's get this party started."

~====o)0(o====~

Francis stood over the figure of Lars, who was bound and smirking up at his captors.

"Hey, Francy! How's Max? Did he enjoy my little gift?"

"His name is Matthieu," the Frenchman hissed, his face white with rage.

"Whatever. Not like anyone cares."

"I do."

"And what? You're going to avenge your wronged pet faggot? You couldn't hurt a roach! " the Dutchman laughed loudly. Or at least, he did until something heavy slammed into his gut with a lot of force behind it. He hocked spit and gasped for air as Francis lined up another hockey ball and Gil whooped,

"Nice one, Francis! Where'd you lean to shoot like that?"

"I've been playing against Matthieu for _years_," he grunted, swinging hard, ball hitting the captive's thigh with enough force to bruise the bone.

Lars hissed, "You can't even touch me, you're pitiful!"

"Would anyone object too strenuously if I broke his legs?" Francis growled. Gil shrugged amicably and Antonia handed him a garden hoe.

"You know what to do," she smiled, and it was true. Francis did know exactly what to do. He'd seen this done far too many times for his liking.

Carefully, he touched the blade of the tool just above Lars' kneecap, balancing it and checking the angle before stamping down heavily on the head, severing muscle and wedging the filthy piece of metal behind the patella and between the femur and tibia.

Lars gasped, trying to suck in breath and failing. Blood was oozing fast and thick from the long, deep cut and every single muscle in his body was spasming with the effort of not screaming in pain.

"Huh," Gilbert pushed himself off of the wall he had been leaning on with a leer, "Looks like you're got a nasty little scrape there, Lassy. Why don't you like Dr Beilschmidt cauterize that for you?"

"You're a doctor?" Lars managed to asked, his chest rising and falling as though he had just run a marathon.

"Well, not technically," Gil said, bending down and poking roughly at the mangled flesh with the tip of one rubber-gloved finger, "I'm fully qualified. I just never took the Hippocratic oath. All that 'abstaining from all that is harmful and mischievous' just didn't sit well with me, you know?"

He looked up at Lars, a wicked light burning in his red eyes, "I've never killed a man, but I've come pretty damn close." He stood up, batting his eyelashes and still grinning like a demon. His face was close to the Dutchman's as he whispered, "Would you like to be my first?"

Lars stared with wide blue eyes at the hot poker that Antonia had just handed the German, unable to tear his eyes away even as it burned through the fabric of his pants and into his flesh. The smell of searing skin and muscle reached him before the pain did, and then the sound of his own screams penetrated the cotton-wool of his mind, and he tried to writhe, but was held in place by the ropes, duct tape and handcuffs that bound him.

"Do the other one, Francis," Gilbert said detachedly, leaning back and handing the poker to Antonia so that she could re-heat it for him.

The screaming didn't stop as the soiled blade of the hoe dug once more into his flesh, cleaving ligament, muscle and cartilage. It even grew in volume as the red-hot metal of the poker sealed the freshly-made wound.

Francis sighed, looking down at himself, there was blood all over his jeans, "I liked this pair."

He was feeling surprisingly unremorseful about the entire affair.

"Well, you can rope Mattie into shopping with you. 'I beat up the nasty for you. You have to do whatever I want now,' kinda thing, _Ja_?" Gilbert said, pulling clear liquid from a small bottle and flicking the needle twice.

"Non. Matthieu doesn't even know I'm here."

Antonia tutted as she swabbed Lars' neck with alcohol, "You should tell him, _mijo_; he has to know."

"He knows how much I love him. He doesn't need proof."

"Ja!" Gilbert agreed, sticking his syringe precisely into Lars' neck, though without much care as to how much pain he caused, "Dude. You can't just kill a guy for him and not let him know. I hear the guilt's a bitch."

"Fuck you! I'm glad this needle is going to kill me so I don't have to listen to your stupid problems anymore! But you could have been a little more daring. Too chicken on your first kill?"

"What?" Gilbert said, his face falling into a lopsided grin, "You think this is lethal? Don't insult me! This is a paralytic. I don't want you wiggling while I do this." The albino picked up a scalpel, admiring the way it gleamed in the fluorescent lighting.

"Just relax," he purred, "You'll be able to feel everything."

With the utmost care, Gil slid the blade between the Dutchman's lower ribs, relishing the panted whimpers as he slid the knife along, right across his ribcage and between the bones on the opposite side, going down as far as he could before working on the next set of ribs.

"We aren't going to have long after I'm done with this," Gil said, wiping a stray misting of red from his cheek with the back of his hand, "Man, I should have done this professionally; will you look at that? Perfectly steady!" he gestured to his hand as it guided the scalpel to make another deep incision on the Dutchman's chest. Lars had given up on screaming and was now just letting the tears stream down his face while he tried to breathe.

The other two nodded, "Antonia, do you want to carve the turkey?" Gil offered, but she shook her head.

"Tonight I'm just watching. You two have more claim to this kill than I do."

They nodded and Francis walked up to Gil, "What do I have to do?"

"Just hit him here," the albino slashed a quick X on Lars' sternum, "as hard as you can. If you break it, he should pop right open. If not, we try again."

The Frenchman nodded and stepped back before stepping forward quickly and bringing all his weight down on the X with his elbow. There was a sharp, wet crack as Lars' bone gave way, causing his ribs to spring open and apart, just like a child's paper lantern.

Gil stood back, admiring the effect of his handiwork, and the ensuing howl of raw agony, holding up a fist to Francis, who bumped his own against it before opening it for a high-five, which the German gladly reciprocated.

"Guys, I've done a lot here, but I have something I promised I'd do, so if there's anything you want to do?" he looked to Francis, who shook his head.

"I am content to let you have your fun," he said quietly, a soft smile on his face.

"_Lieb_. Can I use your stick?"

"_Bien sûr_."

"_Rigtig_," the albino picked up the hockey-stick and twirled it in his hands, touching it to Lars' cheek. It was a field-hockey stick rather than ice-hockey, and had a hooked head.

"Last words, motherfucker? You won't be talking after this." Gil demanded, holding the stick like a baseball bat, setting his stance.

"My scarf," Lars croaked, his throat raw, "Give my scarf to my girls. _Alstublieft_."

Gil grunted, swinging the stick forward hard so that the convex side of the head thwacked into the tempo-mandibular joint. The Dutchman's jaw shot out of its socket and Lars groaned in pain.

_Bruch sienem verdammen Kiefer._

"Not quiet," the German muttered, pulling the stick back and swinging it again. This time when the wood and composite fibres collided with cheek, there was a sick crack and Gilbert smiled, satisfied.

_Break his fucking jaw. _

Francis moved and cut Lars down so that he dropped to his knees on the concrete floor; letting out a mangled scream as his mutilated legs thudded to the ground. His ribcage sat against the floor like the legs of a centipede.

Antonia pulled a glock from her heavy jeans and aimed it at Lars' head. Gilbert moved to her right and put a hand on hers. Francis moved to the right and did the same.

"_Un_."

"_Dos_."

"_Drei_!"

Together they pulled the trigger and the Dutchman collapsed.

~====o)0(o====~

"Herr Vargas," Ludwig said coldly as Feliciano followed him into his room at the day's end, "I think it would be more appropriate for you to sleep in your own bed, given the circumstances."

"_Per favore_, Ludwig, don't-"

"_Bitte_. Call me _Beilschmidt_. Call me _Beast_. Call me _Lutz_. Just don't call me that."

Feli nodded miserably.

"Alright, Beast. I'll just be going to my room now." He had never felt so weak.

Ludwig sat down on his bed, elbows on knees and face in hands. His lungs felt like they had been filled with lead. He wanted so badly to burst into Feli's room and hug he slight man close. He wanted to breathe in his Mediterranean scent and feel that soft copper hair against his cheek. He wanted to hold that stupid, wonderful man until all his problems went away. Until the world dissolved and the Yakuza and the Bratva went away. Until Feli wanted him the way he wanted Feli.

"Monika," the German said her name like a prayed, and for years she had been the only bible he adhered to, "What am I going to do? I love you and I miss you. To want him too seems like excess. It feels wrong that it feels right."

Voicing his turmoil didn't feel any better. It just solidified the writhing guilt in his gut.

~====o)0(o====~

"Case Officer 682K and Agent Jones, report!" sharp English voice snapped through the apartment. Flustered, Alfred and Arthur stumbled through from the bedroom they had just been occupying into the lounge, where their laptops sat on the coffee-table, facing the door; ready to receive instructions.

"_Arse_!" Arthur yelled as he tripped over that fucking carpet _again_, sprawling on the floor. As Alfred was right on his heels when he tripped, he fell over Arthur, landing on top of the startled Brit in a tangle of limbs and curse words. Arthur went red; they had been, er, _interrupted_ by the call, and they were both quite naked.

"Get the bloody hell off of me!" the MI6 agent hissed, twisting around to look up at the man currently squashing him into the floor.

"Fuck _me_." Alfred swore; his eyes locked straight ahead.

"_Again_? Bloody- _Alf-red_? _What are you looking at_?" he asked, following his lover's gaze to where it rested on the screen on a laptop. Alfred's laptop. The one now running a video conference between the shocked looking C; the angry Director Mueller and the two nude agents on the carpet.

"_Bollocks_."

~====o)0(o====~

"You did _what_? Francis, _why_?"

"_Désolé, amour_." The Frenchman whispered; eyes downcast.

"Why, Francis, why?" Matthew said, holding his lover's face between his hands, touching his lips in butterfly-kisses across his face.

"He hurt you so much. I wanted to make it go away. So that he couldn't hurt any more Matthieus."

"So you killed him?" Matt said, aghast, "With my hockey stick?"

"Non, Gilbert used the stick. He did most of it, I think he had the most rage. I'm sorry, Matthieu. I truly am. I am sorry I upset you."

"But not that you did it?"

"How could I regret anything that keeps you safe?"

"_Je t'aime_," the Canuck whispered tiredly. This really wasn't a conversation to be having at three am.

"Je _t'aime aussi_," Francis murmured softly, kissing Matt's hair as the Canadian snuggled into his chest and went back to sleep.

As long as Matthieu was safe.

~====o)0(o====~

Feliciano Vargas lay in bed, watching the morning sun crawl across his sheets.

Was this what rejection felt like? Because he'd been rejected before, and it didn't feel nearly this bad.

There must be some kind of difference here. He had wanted scores of men and women who had turned him away. Who had told him to take a long walk of a short pier. Who had told him to go and die in particularly painful and inventive ways, a few of which he wasn't sure were actually possible.

But Lu-_Beast_ had told him to go to his own room with such remorse in is voice.

Like he didn't really want him to leave, but he wasn't going to stand for him sticking around either.

"Ve~ _Ludwig_," he said, the word floating gently on a gusting breath.

His phone bleeped and he picked it up, flipping it open and watching the message appear.

_Meet me where you met the Bratva.  
>Bring your man.<br>No one will be harmed.  
>Regards, Honda Kiku.<em>

~====o)0(o====~

Feli paced nervously in the kitchen. Kiku was an honourable man, right? He said that on one would get hurt. That meant that Ludwig would be alright if he came, right? Right.

Picking up the keys to his Maserati mc12; the land-bound kind this time. It was technically a racing car, but what was the point of being Italian if you didn't get to drive stereotypically? He beckoned to Ludwig,

"Lu- Beast," he corrected himself, "We're going out."

"Herr Vargas, I don't think that that would be very safe-"

"We'll be fine," Feli snapped, walking brusquely towards the door, "Are you coming or not?"

With a curt nod and a wave of concern, Ludwig followed his employer. To the ends of the earth, probably.

With a now familiar pang of guilt, he couldn't bring himself to mind.

~====o)0(o====~

Ludwig recognised this alleyway, and touched his arm in remembrance. The brace had only come off a few days ago, and his arm still ached a little.

"Herr Vargas, what are we doing here?" he asked, feeling trepidation run its cold hands up his spine.

"Hajime Mashite, Vargas-san," Kiku Honda said, appearing from the shadows with a little bow, "I'm glad you could make it, and you Beilschmidt san. I am most honoured."

"Feli," he couldn't help it, the name just spilt from his lips, "please explain."

"Signor Honda asked to meet us here. It would have been impolite to refuse.

"Hai. Indeed it would have been. But now that you are here, and I mean neither of you any disrespect by rushing straight into business, nor by using this discreet location, but there is an urgent matter to which I must attend."

His two guests of sorts nodded dutifully, and Ludwig wondered how the hell someone so polite could run a criminal organisation without offending his own sensibilities or someone else's. The German and the Italian nodded.

Kiku cleared his throat, "I am not an unintelligent man, Vargas-san. I realise from your pathetic demeanour that you did not violate my sister. I also know my sister. She has, however, disgraced the family name, and you, Vargas-san, not only aided and abetted her in doing so, but are just a general nuisance, and a spanned in the works of a perfect business transaction between Braginsky-san and myself. I would be very much obliged if you would hand yourself over for execution in two days time at noon. I will be at the Campo de' Fiori. Be there."

"What if I'm not there?" Feli asked, his voice calm but his legs trembling.

"Then," Kiku said silkily, drawing an ornate katana that neither the Mafioso nor his bodyguard had seen them carrying and letting the blade carress Feliciano's throat, "I will hunt you down and kill everyone you love before your eyes."

Ludwig felt his blood freeze in his veins as the glinting edge of the sword touched his employer's throat. He should have stood in front of him, he should have. He should have. He didn't know what he should have done, but it most certainly wasn't this. He was utterly superfluous in this situation.

The German watched the finely crafter steel blade, engraved with battling dragons and strange characters whose meaning he didn't know, as it did what he so craved; gently kissing the bronze skin of Feli's neck.

"Starting," the Yakuza boss murmured almost lovingly as he stared at his sword and shifted it so that the tip rested over Ludwig's heart; it was only then that he realised how close he had been standing behind the precious person, "With. Him."

Feli felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He wasn't going to let Ludwig, strong, gorgeous Ludwig die for his sake. He wasn't going to be a coward this time.

Even as the sword was drawn back, he turned and buried himself in the comforting presence at his back. Ludwig had barely been working for him for half a year, but he was a precious and valued part of their family.

"Ludwig," he whispered, realising as he spoke that he was crying, "what am I going to do? I can't let you die."

"Hush, _liebe_," he answered softly, unable to push him away, unwilling to have his warm presence removed from his arms. Though Feliciano was the one sobbing, Ludwig found that it was he who needed the hug more this time, and his Italian who wouldn't push him away, "I will protect you."

~====o)0(o====~

**I had stuff to say, but I forget. I have red hair, and because of the shirt I'm wearing, I look like Matt from Deathote. I've drunk too much tea again. Another one-day chapter.**

**200****th**** reviewer gets a request. **

**Plox review?**

**~RutheLa**


	17. My Baby Shot Me Down

**Silver Alida, here's to you sweetheart. :D**

**Ominous Title is Fucking Ominous. **

**I can't wrap my head around the fact that you people **_**talk**_** about my story. You recommend it to your friends. It does not compute! I'm just some random teenage girl from Cape Town. I have a keyboard and internet. I'm no different than anyone else out there. And yet somehow, impossibly, you're all interested in the story I have to tell. **

**Much thanks to my super-duper awesome little sister who helped me write the first part of this. But not the second. In no way did she either aid or abet the writing of the second half. At all. EVER. **

**Stripes93, 1silentmouse, skittleAcullen, Erik's Phantomess, Shizuka Aralia, Pigyz-kun, Madee-chan, JustAmel, kisa2012, Chad-Vader, Blu Rai, silver Alida and Tala. **

**Penultimate Chapter is Penultimate. **

**Also, I lied.**

~====o)0(o====~

"_Liebe_?" Feli asked, looking up with sodden eyes.

Ludwig stopped dead, his muscles froze in place, but his heart throbbed against his ribcage, begging to get out.

"_Ich- Es tu mir lied_," he whispered hoarsely, his arms locked around the Italian. He couldn't seem to move. He was too shocked to speak English.

"Don't be sorry," Feli whispered back, lifting shaking hands he grabbed the German's collar and pulled him down with surprisingly little resistance and locked their lips together.

Before Ludwig's mind could react past "_soft_" his embrace tightened and his lips responded of their own volition and he was kissing him back. It was soft and so, so sweet. Denial only made the reward better, and he wondered when he had started thinking of his resistance as self-denial.

"Hmn," the Italian hummed, probing his tongue against the taller man's lower lip.

Suddenly, Ludwig felt his senses come crashing back down around his ears and he pushed the smaller man away.

"_Es tu mir lied_," he repeated, wiping his now sweaty hands on his blazer. He turned and he walked away, not hearing Feli follow him.

With a forlorn sigh, he touched his lips. They tingled where the blood had rushed just beneath his skin, and from the compression of the kiss.

"Please don't be sorry," he sniffled quietly, beginning to walk after him.

~====o)0(o====~

Feli spent the next two days with his family. Laughing with Antonia, Francis and Gilbert about how they had ended Lars. Ludwig took quiet satisfaction in knowing that that his request had been taken so literally and that the Dutchman's end had been excruciatingly painful. Playing chess against Matthew and losing. Arguing playfully with Lovino about silly things like pizza topping and pasta versus tomatoes.

He roped them into wandering around Rome with him, stopping frequently for ice-cream, even though it was chilly outside.

They went out to lunch, and even though Lovi complained loudly about being shot at, they weren't.

Gilbert looked at Ludwig's ridiculously stiff posture, his locked jaw and the hard line of his mouth and raised an eyebrow. His brother nodded to him. No, he wasn't okay. He wasn't going to be okay.

It hurt him to see the way that Feli was smiling. He was only just holding it together under a veneer of joy and laughter.

He was going to die. There had to be something he could do to stop it. He couldn't just stand by and watch. It was his job God damn it! He had to protect him.

It was more than a job.

He had to protect him.

There had to be something that he could do to stop the inevitable. There had to be. He wasn't going to let him die having done nothing to save him. Even if it was going to cost him dearly.

Every member of this family and whatever entourage they had knew about the phone taps. From both the inside and the outside, the inside being remarkable more dangerous. The outside was still something to be weary of, though. So it was with trepidation and a resigned sigh that he stepped into his own room and dialled while Feli was writing his will in the next room.

"Guten tag. I would like to speak with Kirkland Pizzerias. I have an order I would like to place."

"_Scussi_?" asked the rather confused pizza boy on the other end of the line.

~====o)0(o====~

"Incoming call: Beilschmidt, L," barked across the apartment of Arthur Kirkland and Alfred Jones, who were currently making the beast with two backs on the couch.

The elder of the two stopped rutting and stuck out a sweaty arm to turn the headphones off so he could carry on making Alfred writhe and do his job at the same time. Who said this job had no perks?

"_Guten tag. I would like to speak with Kirkland Pizzerias. I have an order I would like to place._"

Arthur sat bolt upright, staring at the screen as a bemused Italian replied.

"Fuck, do that again!" Alfred demanded as the motion of Arthur straightening rammed his cock into the younger man's prostate.

"Shut up!" he snapped, turning up the volume.

"_You know the number. I have things that I need to discuss with you. Things of life or death importance. If you do not call me within half an hour, I will find you_."

The American beneath him wiggled as the call was disconnected, and sunk his teeth into the crook of Arthur's neck.

"We have thirty minutes, Artie," he whispered, "fuck me like you mean it, this time."

"I should bend you over my knee, boy!" the Englishman growled.

"Is that a promise?"

~====o)0(o====~

"Cutting it fine, Kirkland," Ludwig snapped, answering is phone exactly 29 minutes after he had placed the call; and been forced to order pizza, which Feli was now eating.

"_Jones_," the strong twang corrected, "_I'm Artie's boyfriend. He's just catching his breath. You caught us at a bad time if you get my drift."_

"_Fucking hell, Alfred! Give me the fucking phone!" _ An angry voice yelled loud enough for the German to hear.

"_Rigtig_. Give Agent Kirkland the phone," he said shortly.

"_Kirkland_," Arthur said primly, "_please excuse Agent Jones, he's new. And he's not my boyfriend_."

"_Fuck-buddies, then?" _Alfred chipped in helpfully.

"That is not my concern. Pay attention to what I am going to say, because I am only going to say it once, and it is going to make your careers."

~====o)0(o====~

The second day passed in a similar blur of activity, and still Feli said nothing to his family about his imminent demise. He didn't even speak about it to Ludwig.

That was until the last night. The chill, late November air was curling it's tendrils about the German as he shed his blazer. The door creaked open, and Feli walked in, looking chastened and wearing an over-sized button-up shirt that Ludwig recognised as one of his own that had gone missing two weeks ago.

"Ve~ Can I stay with you tonight? I don't want to be alone." He said quietly.

"Herr Vargas, I really don't think that that is appropriate, especially after. . ." he trailed off; he couldn't bring himself to voice his shameful action.

"You kissed me back." The Italian apparently had no such qualms.

"Yes, and I apologise, I wasn't thinking clearly and I acted inappropriately."

"Please, _per favore_, Ludwig. Don't be sorry. I kissed you first. I was so happy when- Just don't be sorry, ok?" Feli begged, the sadness he felt at saying goodbye to his family, however subtly and the guillotine of time that hung over his neck catching up to him as he stepped into the room.

"I care about you Ludwig, and I know you care about me. I just. Please? My last wish; for my last night on this earth, will you kiss me again? I can understand if you don't want to, but please. I know there's no heaven waiting for me; I just want to know happiness before I die."

For a longest time, neither of them said anything. Feli was scared that he had said too much. He wanted the German so much, but he didn't want to force him, and he was afraid that he might have pushed him too hard. The bodyguard considered his options. The heartbreaking plea; just a kiss? It that so bad? Monika wouldn't begrudge either of them a moment of happiness, would she? Of course not. She had always advocated second chances, happiness and all the happily ever after drek that he had never held any stock with.

Ludwig gave in.

It was so easy, but then, giving in usually is. He had expected it to be harder to do this, but it was almost too easy, as natural as breathing.

He pulled Feliciano tight against himself and bent his head to kiss him. It was impossibly sweeter than the first kiss. It was longing and desire and joy at finally having the slim man in his arms. To hold, to protect, to cherish.

Of course, it didn't stop at a kiss. His body was acting of its own accord, which was just as well, because his brain had stopped all but the most basic functions, handing the reigns over to sensation.

With oddly confidant fingers, the German divested Feli of his shirt, letting them play over that hot, bronze skin, warming them. As warm as this golden country.

Feliciano sans shirt didn't possess the same near-androgyny as his clothed self. The width of his shoulders, even though they weren't broad, was still masculine. The flow of soft, subtle musculature beneath that gorgeous skin was still masculine. And even though it was, and Ludwig was going to have to sit down and have a serious think about his sexuality later, the German was hard pressed in that moment to think of anything more beautiful.

The Italian watched transfixed, his breath catching in his throat as Ludwig shucked his own shirt, revelling in the pale glow the moonlight lent to his skin. It was truly magical. It seemed to drain all colour from him. His pale hair became utterly white, his ice-blue eyes melted into mercurial silver. It took Feli a full minute of blatant staring to fully accept that this was not a dream. And even if it was, it was a fucking brilliant dream and should be taken full advantage of.

Feeling as nervous as a virgin, his heart racing like Sea Biscuit, he reached out and took a large, white hand in his own shaking brown one. Butterflies beat their wings against his internal organs as Ludwig gently squeezed his hand, steadying it.

Together, they moved towards each other, meeting in a slow, burning solder of lips and tongue. Slim hands caressed needless scars, from both his time in Italy and other places. Large ones stroked languidly, taking comfort in the heat and nearness of the other.

It was as Feliciano had suspected, he mused, as Ludwig left open-mouthed kisses along his belly, slow. Sensual. This wasn't fucking. This wasn't even sex.

So this is what it felt like to make love.

He gasped as Ludwig entered him, clinging to the strong shoulders above him, drowning in sensation and rejoicing in it. He rocked his hips back to meet the measured thrusts, feeling the burn build, keeping his honey eyes wide as he tried to commit every single detail to memory. The way those pale blue eyes watched him intently, as though Ludwig was trying to do the exact same thing.

This is when he wanted to think about when he died. Making love to this quietly loving man. Watching the contrast of their skin. Seeing the way his muscles rippled as he pushed himself forward, making Feli's eyes close and his breath huff in clouds into the night air. He traced his broad back with feather-fingers, wanting to know it, but afraid to make the magic go away.

He arched his back into the pale chest above him, breathing a million endearments and being paid with a sweet touch of lips to his throat.

They didn't really exchange words. There was no place here for them, only the slow communication between their bodies as Ludwig rocked his hips into the Italian, cock head teasing moans and soft gasps from bitten lips as it stroked against his prostate like a cat.

"_Ti amo_," he sighed breathily before orgasm stole the breath from his lungs.

He'd said the words a thousand times, a thousand million again after that, too. But they seemed to mean something special hear, in this dark room where moonlight showed their sins and the grunt of Ludwig's own completion seemed too echo. This was bigger than what would be. This is what could have been.

A pair of strong and sleepy arms encircled Feliciano as they well apart, drawing their bodies back together. Ludwig held the smaller man to his chest.

As they lay, sweat cooling in the night, Feli simply pressed his lips into the receding flush of the German's broad, sloping shoulders – he hadn't even had to ask to be held – tasting the salt of sweat and his own tears.

"_Grazie mille_."

The arms around him tightened protectively, their owner already asleep.

~====o)0(o====~

Feliciano and Ludwig sat in the car, both of their stomachs churning.

"I don't want to do this," Feli whispered, his face pale, his entire body shaking like a maraca.

"I know."

"Thank you, for, you know. Last night. Thank you,"

He nodded slowly.

"It's twelve-fifty-eight," the Italian giggled, "I wouldn't want to be late to my own. . ."

On an impulse, he was having more and more of these lately, and he should probably get a handle on it, he leant over and kissed Feli square on the mouth. The Mafioso moaned a little, reciprocating the kiss, his hand stroking the plane of Ludwig's cheek.

"_Do you accept my offer?"_

"_We'll see."_

_Click._

He hoped his plan would work. They broke apart and Feli got out of the car, seeming a little surprised when Lutz did, too.

"I have to protect you," he said by way of explanation.

Feliciano shook his head, but didn't say a word, walking instead, on boldly trembling legs to the centre of the square, where four people stood; A tall silvery blonde man, a short dark man and two blonde women.

"Ve~ Where's Sakura?" Feli asked as he joined them, Ludwig by his side.

"I am pleased that you could make it, Vargas-san. She," he smiled a little, "she is no longer anyone's concern. Except perhaps that of your local meat industry."

Feli made a disgusted face.

"I assume we're going somewhere?" he asked.

"You assume incorrectly," Kiku said, drawing a gun in full view of the public. People screamed and ran, but before the Japanese man or one of his associates had time to squeeze of a shot, approximately twenty civilians drew their own weapons and aimed them at the party.

"Drop your weapons!" A blonde man said, advancing with his own gun in one hand and a badge in the other, "FBI! I said drop your fucking weapons!"

"How dishonourable, Varagas-san," Kiku hissed, letting his gun fall to the floor at the same time as Ivan and Katyusha dropped theirs. A few seconds later, the clatter of metal on stone signalled Natalya's knives greeting the ground.

"Ve~ I had nothing to do with this," Feli protested, holding up his hands.

"I did," Ludwig said quietly.

"Ve~ Why, Ludwig?" the Italian asked, his eyes grateful.

"It's my duty to protect you."

"Did you know? Last night?" The weight of his fear lifting, making him feel as though he could fly.

"Ja."

"And you still?"

"Ja."

They stood close together as assorted members of the Italian police and Interpol, in co-operation with MI6 and the FBI arrested the aggressors in the square and the members of their respective gangs that were scattered in the crowd.

"Ludwig, aren't they going to arrest us?"

"No. Ah, Agents Jones and Kirkland? It's nice to see you again," he asked the two blonde men approaching them.

"Quite," Arthur said, sticking out his hand to be shaken, while Alfred kept his hands quite firmly in his pockets, a sour expression on his face.

"Ve~!" Feli said happily, ignoring the hand in favour of hugging the surprised Englishman, "Grazie! Grazie mille! I'm so happy that you did this, grazie. And you two should try Rain Vanilla lube. You'll like it, Artie."

Alfred's jaw dropped and Arthur's face flushed an impossibly deep shade of red. Ludwig's lips tweaked into a small smile,

"The phone tap goes both ways," he explained, and the agents exchanged looks of utter mortification.

"I should arrest you right now," Alfred growled moodily.

"And risk having the Vargas family come down on you?" the German challenged.

"It's the right thing to do!" The American snapped angrily. Arthur laid a restraining hand on his shoulder,

"Come on, lad, let's go see to the real suspects."

"But they're bad guys too, Artie!"

"The lesser of two evils, Alfie."

"Don't call me that."

"Now you know how I feel."

"I just meant 'not unless we're having sex'."

Ludwig shook his head and looked down at Feli, who was crying again.

"Why are you crying?" he asked softly, another small smile gracing his harsh features, warming them. There was beauty in this beast.

"Because I'm alive," he said, standing on his toes to brush their lips together. Ludwig was about to reciprocate when an American voice caught his attention,

"Ma'am, you aren't authorised to be here," Alfred twanged.

"_Dispiace_," a woman said dismissively and the German looked up in time to see Sophia draw her gun and aim it at him. At Feliciano. He did the only thing he could think of; he pushed the Italian in his arms to the ground as two quick shots rang out.

Feli looked up from the hard cobbles he suddenly found himself sprawled on,

"What the hell, Ludwig?" he demanded as the bodyguard bent over, one hand stretching towards the floor.

Several more shots rang out and it clicked. Gunfire. He? No! He scrambled over to where Ludwig was on his knees, arms folded tightly across his stomach. His face was drawn and unnaturally pale. He was blinking heavily. Then he saw the blood. Then he smelt the reek of bile and shit, amplified a thousand times into an unbearable stench.

"I should go," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "but I want to stay with you," he sagged forward, his head resting on Feli's shoulder.

"Help!" Feliciano yelled, his voice ringing in his own ears, "Help! He's been shot!"

~====o)0(o====~

**Please don't hate me T_T**

**~RutheLa**


	18. My Guardian Angel  My Protector

**From the 8****th**** of July 2011 at 10:47 PM to 29****th**** of November at 10: 40 AM. **

**Jen. Rend, grellsmidnightlover, Tala, xxxXXXSMILEXXXxxx, JustAmel, Ranulf, Shizuka Aralia, graysam, Queen Mab, Cacow, animerockchick, Awesomeness Incarnate, ichiman, Anankha Clemens, Catsdon'tcry, Madee-Chan, TygahstahLuvah33333, skittleAcullen, KajiMori, Seilez Wingalas, Oreocooky, silver Alida, Pigyz-kun, Stripes93, woodbyne, Erik's Phantomess and Goldpen. I love you all so much, thank you for being part of this with me. I'll reply personally when I'm less emotional.**

**Also, my laptop just arrived. Expect a whole lot more porn from here on in. **

~====o)0(o====~

Feli sat on his knees as people swirled around him. Ludwig's deadweight was hefted into an ambulance; whose foresight had arranged that. Thank you, law enforcement. There were people clamouring for his attention, agents Kirkland and Jones, the police, a paramedic.

"Agent Jones," Feli demanded; his first words in fifteen eternal minutes, "give me your gun."

"No fucking way, Vargas. I am not going to give you any kind of firearm." Alfred said in disbelief. He was an agent of the law, and that meant not giving emotionally unstable members of the mafia weapons of any sort.

In one fluid motion, Feliciano stood, swaying slightly. His face was pale beneath its olive overtone, his face was uncompromising and his eyes wide with a mixture of grief and rage.

"That woman just shot my bodyguard," it felt wrong to use such an impersonal term to describe the man who had saved his life, with whom he had shared his body. He was indeed a bodyguard. His protector, "I don't know how it works in your family, Jones, but in my family, we look after our own. She will pay."

"She's already dead," Arthur said, trying to calm the maelstrom of feelings that were making the smaller man shake, "Jones shot her." He gave Alfred a disproving glare.

"Agent Jones," Feli repeated crisply, his voice snapping taught in the cool air, ignoring Arthur completely. He leant forward, and even though Alfred was not only taller than the Italian, but broader too, he took a step back. In those clear honey-brown eyes there was pure murder, "give me your gun." He held out his hand expectantly, his face challenging Alfred to deny him.

Without thinking, and unable to look away from those sad eyes, the American handed over his gun.

"Thank you." Feli said shortly, striding over to the corpse of Sophia. He didn't even know her last name. There she was, vengeful face stopped in an expression of grief and hatred. The assorted members of assorted law enforcement agencies watched the slight Italian.

Hands coated in the soft, dark sheen of kid leather slid lovingly over the barrel and down, popping the magazine out with a click. Six fat little cylinders sat snugly in the black plastic. Their conical crowns rattling as a gloved fingertip caressed them gently. Like a stick along a railing as a child. Naughty. Not supposed to be doing that. In a swift, violent movement, the magazine snapped back into place. The safety catch was pressed off with the same motion that Ludwig had made when he wiped Mariana sauce from the corner of those full, sweet lips.

A steadying breath puffed its brief staccato from ice-encased lungs. Here. On this afternoon that was burning away the morning chill was no time or place for a frozen heart. But the sun couldn't see through the fragmented ribcage. It could not see the beating heart laid bare. It couldn't melt the silent scream that was wrestling its way through the mangled flesh of Feliciano's chest.

Face as calm as a still lake, first the left foot shifted, shimmying into place, the right following suit. It was a stable stance. On prepared for kickback. The right hand held the gun firmly, index finger teasing the trigger, not quite depressing it fully. Caressing it. In the exact way that Ludwig's slow caresses and burning touches had teased him to completion. The left hand reached out and cupped its twin, steadying it. Wight was shifted from one hip to the other in a slow undulation that mimicked the motion of meeting the thrusts of another.

A jerky tilt of the head pushed that ever-present copper spiral from his vision. Teeth clenched as the soft lips drew back in a poetic snarl. Eyebrows pulled down low over narrowed eyes, forming a V of anguish.

First one saline droplet fell to earth, and though the square was by no means silent, the inconsequential splash of that tear echoed, then another, and another, until water coated hot cheeks and the delicate curve of his nose was flushed, breathing stuffy with snot.

The woman on the ground, as yet uncovered by any anonymous body bag, but for her stillness and the blood staining her white dress, could have been having a bad dream. The frown on her face was not one of malice, but of sadness. Still he hated the sight of it, and his gorge rose. Ludwig. Gone.

_Gone_.

After only a few short months. Not even a year. Not nearly enough time. Forever wouldn't have been long enough.

Feli looked at the face of Sophia. She just wanted her father back. He knew that. He'd done the exact same thing when his parents had died. But sometimes things are beyond control. A staircase is something that is beyond control. The frailty of an old man's spine is beyond control.

"_You stupid whore_!" he screamed, his voice shrieking like a badly tuned violin, all the stereotypical, whimsical music that the German had come to enjoy was gone from him, "_I didn't kill your father_!"

He fired the first shot. The bullet ploughed into her right eye with a squelch.

"Congratulazioni_, cunt! You didn't kill me, but now I want to die_!"

The second bullet shattered her cheek, sending bone fragments flying like shrapnel.

"_Lo lo amo! Tu cagna stupido! Lo l'ho amato_!"

The third bullet entered just below her hairline.

"_Are you happy _now_, Sophia? __**Are**__**you**_?"

He squeezed the trigger again and again and again and again. Until the empty clicking noise registered and he let his hands drop. He kicked her viciously in the ribs, blood dotting the stiff, polished leather of his shoe. Not that he cared.

He looked down at her face, pockmarked as it was by the tunnels the metal shells had burrowed into her flesh. He kicked her in the head, again and again, and an animalistic scream ripping itself from his lungs, running its claws across his vocal chords and up his airways, tearing at his lips. Almost as one the Italian police force turned away from Feliciano, leaving him to his grief, leaving only Arthur and Alfred transfixed.

The slim Italian strode back to where the two foreign agents stood. He placed the warm weapon into Alfred's hand, a faint smile on his lips, not quite reaching his red-rimmed eyes.

"Thank you very much for the use of your gun, Agent Jones," he said, a little hoarsely.

The American nodded dumbly, looking at the chunk of plastic in his hands.

Feli turned to Arthur, a veiled threat in his kindly expression, "Be kind to Peter and Victoria, Artie. When it comes down to it, your family is all you have."

He turned on his heel and walked back the way he had come, back to his car. It seemed too big now that it wasn't filled with gruff, quiet kindness.

Alfred continued to stare unseeingly at his gun.

"I have no idea how I'm supposed to explain this to my boss."

~====o)0(o====~

There were five people at the funeral. It was a small affair, a few lilies and an expensive casket.

The Priest said a few words and looked to the audience in case anyone had anyone had anything to add. No one even looked up. Their eyes transfixed by the shining chestnut coffin.

Feli turned away. He couldn't do this. Not today, not ever. He couldn't stand here and toss a handful of dirt into a premature grave on top of a casket that shouldn't even exist with no tears left to cry.

Lovino grabbed him by the shoulder and roughly shoved him away, his eyes never leaving the priest.

"Get out of here, _fratellino_."

The younger brother nodded and turned to leave. At first he was just walking, then he was walking fast and finally he realised that he was running, sprinting through the headstones. The tears he thought he didn't have were streaming unbecomingly down his face.

Out of breath and shaky of limb, he stopped. He didn't even know why he had come to the stupid funeral.

He had other places that demanded his presence, other duties that demanded his attention.

But before he could do that, he had to stop and wretch, his empty stomach trying to empty itself over a tombstone.

~====o)0(o====~

The small apartment was bare of speech, only the sounds of the two agents snapping equipment back into its casing. Arthur looked up at Alfred's deep frown – that boy was going to need to get a grip on his hero complex; sometimes you just couldn't save the world; - and shook his head.

"You know that it's not your fault, lad," he tried.

"I was sent here to corner a drug dealer!" the American bit out in frustration, "And now that I fucking well know who it is, I can't lay a finger on her!"

"What? Bloody hell, lad! Why didn't you say anything?" Arthur asked, feeling a little offended.

"It's embarrassing," Alfred admitted, hanging his head and pulling a crumpled, much-read piece of paper. The letter was fabric-soft where it had been repeatedly scrunched up and smoothed out,

"'_Dear Jonesy_,'" he read, an angry growl in his throat,

"'_It's been a pleasure evading you on my home turf and I look forward to doing it on an international level again as soon as my honey-moon is over. Mattie says to never bother him again, he hates you. And Francis might just kill you if you try and contact him; he's back to his pacifist ways, but who knows. ;)_

_Never yours, because you're never going to catch me,_

_Antonia Carriedo (Vargas-to-be!)'_"

Arthur shrugged, "A deal's a deal, Alfie," he said, prompting the taller man to kiss him harshly.

"And that Nazi damn sure knew how to put a deal together," he complained before Arthur kissed him back, "Mmmm- We can't lay a finger on anyone or he'd – Mmmph! Can I talk?"

"I'd really rather you kissed me," the Englishman sulked.

"Look, Artie, if I'm ever, you know; if I ever find myself in England and you're at home- would you mind if I, you know, stopped by or something?"

"If you just happen to find yourself in a lose end in London? So if you just happen to hop across the pond for a weekend?" the Brit asked incredulously.

"Yeah, I know, stupid idea-"

"Only if you'll return the hospitality whenever I'm Stateside."

~====o)0(o====~

**One Year Later**

He stood in his place among the groomsmen at the altar, his mouth fixed into a grim line as he watched Gilbert flirting shamelessly with a bridesmaid, who readjusted the one-year-old on her hip so that she could flash him an obscure and most likely dreadfully offensive hand gesture. Their relationship was strained ever since Daniel had been born; Gil, despite himself, hadn't quite forgiven her for cheating on him and Elizaveta resented his occasional snaps. But they still loved each other, and Daniel, enough to make it work.

Actually, Gil nipped across the aisle to where his fiancé was standing, kissing the ring on her finger briefly before scooping his son out of her arms and ruffling the boy's shock of brown hair,

"You're standing on the wrong side, bucko!" He told the child, swinging him around and rejoining the groomsmen. Elizaveta smiled a little, watching them together.

The rest of the ceremony went off without a hitch. Except for the maid of honour, who was constantly giggling and smiling at him across the aisle. She winked and she flirted and she wiggled her fingers at him when the priest wasn't looking.

Or at least she did until Antonia smacked her over the knuckles in the middle of her vows. That got a laugh from the congregation.

Once the bride coaxed Lovino to say his vows at a reasonable volume and kissed him joyously on the mouth, much to his dismay and (though it really shouldn't have been) surprise, the lavender dressed maid of honour cornered him and wove her slim fingers through his.

"Ve~ _Bello_," Feliciano grinned dropping Ludwig a heavy wink from under his fake fringe, "Let's dance!"

The blonde man nodded and took Feli's hand, "Ja. Let's dance."

Slowly they revolved on the spot, stopping when the German began to wince. He touched his stomach gingerly and the Italian sighed

"Ve~ Lutz. You shouldn't have done that," he said tutting and leading his ex-body-guard to a seat.

"It's my job Herr Vargas; I have to protect you."

Feli frowned his disapproval.

"Besides," the larger man continued, "better me than you."

"What if I'd lost you?" Feli said, looking down at their joined hands.

"You would have found love. It's impossible for you not to. Everyone loves you."

"Do you?"

Ludwig remained silent, and Feli smiled patiently. It would take a while, but he could wait.

They sat like that until the sun set and it was time to toast the happy couple.

"Well, " Gilbert said, clearing his throat after he accidentally smashed the wine glass he was supposed to be tapping with his spoon, "I know most of you, and you know me. I'm Lovino's human shield. So I kind of have to wonder why I'm also his best man. It makes about as much sense as anything he does. But I guess it does in a way. Because I was there on the night he proposed. In fact, I've been with him every step of the way with her. When he first asked her out, when they had their first kiss. I've got it all on tape if anyone's interested," everyone but Lovi burst out laughing, "But I knew that they were meant to be when I was handing him his tie on the night he proposed, and he accidentally let slip with, '_Mi adorata Anotnia'_ Now I don't speak Italian, but I'm pretty sure that he didn't mean to call her that in front of me. Here's to Antonia and Lovi, folks. God bless them both and whatever hell spawn they bring into this world!"

There was a smattering of nervous applause and loud laughs from the bride, a grudging smile form the groom.

~====o)0(o====~

"Ve~ Ludwig, are you sure that you want to do this?" Feli asked, sitting behind the wheel of the car – the German still wasn't supposed to exert himself, even though it had been so long since the .22 rounds had ploughed into his appendix (there was no way that Sophia could have been aiming for that) and his colon. There was still the risk of delayed shock, of re-opening those dangerously infect-able wounds. The possibility of bile and excrement getting into his abdominal cavity was a scary reality.

"Ja. I need to do this," he looked down at the blue and white scarf in his hands. It was knitted clumsily, as if by too-thick fingers with little know-how. After taking a deep breath, he got out of the car and walked up the neat garden path. This must be a very child-friendly neighbourhood. He could hear laughter from inside the house. With a nervous pulse thudding in his throat, he knocked on the door; there really was a remarkable lack of security here, considering his profession.

A woman opened the door; she had a messy bob of golden blonde hair kept back with a black ribbon and blue-green eyes.

"Belle van Dyk?" he asked.

"Yes, that's me, can I help you?" she asked curiously.

"My name is Ludwig Beilschmidt-"

"Oh! Yes, Lars talked about you all the time; you must have been good friends!" She smiled and pulled him inside, not noticing the scar he had tucked under his arm, "Have you heard from him? He hasn't been home in a year. The girls and I miss him," her smile was touched with sadness.

"That's what I came to talk to you-"

"Girls! Come meet Mr Luddy!" she called, before turning back to him apologetically, "I'm sorry, Lars always tells them stories about your adventures together; saving the world and defeating evil. They think of you as some kind of hero." Belle giggled.

"They really-"

He stopped as twin girls galloped into the room with wide blue eyes, "Mr Luddy! Mr Luddy!" they clamoured, hanging on his arms in awe, "You're even bigger than daddy said!"

Even as the name that Lars and Mathias had uttered as they burnt Monika's corpse, slit Louise's belly fell from two sets of small pink lips, he knew that he couldn't begrudge these two little girls,

"What are your names, lieblings? Lars told me he had two beautiful little girls, but he never told me your names,"

"Monique!" chirped the girl with darker blue eyes.

"Eloise!" her lighter haired sister chipped in.

He felt his insides freeze solid. Monique? Eloise?

Monika.

Louise.

He?

No.

_Herr Gott im Himmel_.

He had.

"Excuse me, I have to go," he said, standing up abruptly, letting the tissue-paper wrapped parcel fall from under his arm. The girls pounced on it with cries of "present!" that died in their throats when they saw what it was.

"We made this for daddy," Monique said confusedly.

"We made it special for his birthday," Eloise added, a frown etching her young face.

Belle sat hunched over on the couch, white fingers pressed to her trembling mouth.

"Doesn't daddy like it anymore?"

"He loved it," Ludwig said hoarsely, "so much. Excuse me, but I really must go."

He was halfway out the door when Belle grabbed his arm, her nails stabbing through his shirt and pressing curved welts into his skin.

"What happened to my husband?" he half begged half yelled.

"It's best that you don't know. He was thinking of you as far as I know, but I wasn't there."

"You aren't his friend are you?"

"I don't know if you know what kind of man your husband was, but for your sake and that of your girls, I hope that you don't. Monika was my wife's name and Louise was my daughter's. I – Keep your girls safe, Belle. Tell them their father was a hero, even if he wasn't. He was good to you, and I suppose that's all that should matter to them."

"What are you-? Lars is dead?"

"Yes. I'm very sorry for your loss; I know how you must feel."

"No you don't!"

"Yes. I do."

Trying his best to block out Belle's wretched sobbing; he walked back to the car on shaky legs and climbed in. Feli didn't say anything as he pulled out of the driveway and began the drive back to the airport.

Halfway there, he had to pull over onto the shoulder and take Ludwig into his arms. The large man was sobbing uncontrollably, not even trying to make sense with the syllables that spilt from his mouth. They had the same names. Almost. Was Lars that obsessed? The girls looked just a little younger than Louise would have been. What was Lars going to do to them? Had he intended for Ludwig to take over his family. What was going on? He didn't care. He just let the grief of losing his family, all the hurt he felt, the regrets and bitterness heave themselves out of him in great, hiccupping sobs.

Feli simply sat with his arms around the shuddering man, his lover, his protector, whispering soothing phrases in Italian until the tears ran dry and his shirt was stained with tears. Ludwig wiped his face messily, just trying to clear his eyes. He gave Feli a watery facsimile of a smile.

"I'm sorry about that. I'm much better now," the smaller Italian reached up to touch his left cheek and kissed the right one, knowing better than to try and kiss him so soon after his little breakdown. Sometimes Ludwig would go very quiet and get a little moody, and it was generally a bad idea to try anything romantic when he got that way, but those episodes were steadily getting few and far between. While they had been in Belgium, then had stopped off in Germany and he had showed Feli the graves of his wife and child. Feli had talked to them, telling the headstones all about himself and how Ludwig was doing, and how he wished that he could have met them. That made the German smile.

"No you aren't," Feliciano murmured, resting his head against the larger man's shoulder, "but you will be. I know it."

"You're my guardian angel," Ludwig said softly, leaning in for a brief, tentative kiss that made the mobster's heart sing.

"I thought you didn't believe in angels," he teased.

"I believe in you."

Feli didn't answer, opting simply to smile his most sincere smile while they sat in silence on this shoulder of a Belgian highway.

~====o)0(o====~

**Hi everyone. I know it's not much of an ending. I know that there aren't any sloppy I-love-you-for-eva-and-eva's but that's seriously not how I roll. I was actually seriously considering killing Ludwig, because gut wounds are just that bad.**

**I can't believe that this is over.**

**Thank you to everyone who stuck this out; through exams and flu and insignificant personal crises. Thank you to my mom who helped me with anatomy and likelihood of certain events, to my dad for synonyms and when I couldn't find a word. To my friends, who let me thrash out the plot with them and give them spoilers so that they could give my plot ideas. To Woodbyne, who let me type chapter 11 on her computer and who is always just a phone-call away when I've capped my internet or run out of "filling for my pie," and who lets me post my shit on her account. To my sister who sat through my explanations and demands and computer-hogging with a bored expression on her face but was really helpful all the same. Thank you to Lucy, who for the last two weeks has been enabling my tea-habit. **

**And finally, a huge thank you to every single person who has stuck through this story through thick and thin, if you just joined or if you've been with me from the start. THANK YOU! If you reviewed or if you just lurked, THANK YOU. **

**The sequel should be up sometime soon-ish. It's called Sonata and its pretty much the next generation of MSIMP characters, twenty years on. It focuses more on Elizaveta and Gil's relationship, with Daniel and his friends as main characters. Guest cameos of old friends from this story will feature. I'm not abandoning this universe just yet! But I will be posting other stories as well.**

**I hope to see you all again soon, if not; well, I'll miss you. **

**Love, **

**Ruth.**


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